


Shadows Kept Alive

by maccom



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst and Feels, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Dark Knight Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers, Post-Apocalypse, Rating will definitely change, Slow Burn, mentions of agoraphobia, post-Eighth Umbral Calamity, pre-5.0, spoilers up until 5.3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 59
Words: 192,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22805977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maccom/pseuds/maccom
Summary: “None of us were prepared for the spectacle that awaited us when we first stepped into the tower [...] and there, at its center, we found him.”G’raha Tia wakes to a world devastated by the Eighth Umbral Calamity. The engineers of the Ironworks have a plan to right the wrongs committed centuries earlier - but can G’raha work past his own fear, doubt, and sorrow? Can he claim what is his by bloodright and see this plan through to completion?Can he save his Warrior of Light?Chapter 32: we’re on the First!Chapter 41: we’ve reached 5.0!
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 437
Kudos: 300





	1. Found at Center

Smothering silence, a biting wind tearing at his skin and hair, the inky sky traversed by a network of faintly-glowing stars: it is a strange, cold world spread before him. He knows there are fires at his back - warm, crackling, surrounded by some of the most welcoming people he has ever met - but in this moment he would rather be alone. The wind forces him awake, and he manages to find a scrap of serenity in the silence.

He stands at the top of a high stone wall in a small area of cleared snow. Below him stretches malms and malms of rocky white land free of both track marks and foliage; barren of life, the snowy expanse extends to the distant cliffs some ways away. Memory tells him there is a lake beneath the snow, but the crashed airship and dragon corpse are long gone; the crystals that once held reservoirs of aether are dull or destroyed. 

He is the only person alive to remember otherwise.

Dragging shaking hands over his eyes, G’raha Tia pulls his mind from that quagmire of regret and pity. He has been awake for less than a day and already he has sunk into melancholy, falling down that slippery slope of depression and sorrow even as the people around him rejoice. They are _so pleased_ to have discovered him, so completely overjoyed to have succeeded where others failed, but the world they woke him to is terrifying.

Anxiety bubbles in his chest, tightens his lungs, spins his stomach into knots, demands he retreat. This is not _his_ world, not anymore - this is a cracked reflection, a grotesque mummery of the home he loves. Where are the Scions? Where are the Children of Baldesion, the members of NOAH, the factions he’d come to know so well?

Where is his Warrior of Light?

By the gods, he wants to cry. He wants to lock himself in his tower, bury himself beneath his blankets, and sob. For the friends he has lost - for the world as it stands - for the nightmare that he has awoken to - 

For the one person he thought would outlast it all.

Idiocy, and yet - he’d looked, hadn’t he? When the doors opened and strangers rushed in - curious, respectful, hiding their fear and their desperation - had he not thought to hope? Had his eyes not roamed, searched, sought that dark-haired Hyur he missed so much? Had he not told himself, again and again, that if anyone could solve the mystery of Syrcus Tower it would be the Warrior of Light?

He could not have known how much time had passed. He could not have foreseen how Eorzea would unravel once he locked his tower - there was no way to predict how little time remained for the world outside his doors.

Footsteps on the snow behind him make him cringe. It takes effort to steady his breathing, takes conscious thought to push his emotions back to a level he can withstand - but he straightens, head held high, and turns his head to greet the newcomer. “You may come closer - I promise not to bite.”

The Roegadyn behind him shrugs uncomfortably. “I don’t want to disturb you, sir. I can always return on the morrow.”

“There is no time like the present,” G'raha says, the words biting at his consciousness even as he voices them. What he wouldn’t give to be in any time but this one. “How may I help?”

“I’d hoped to help you, sir. I can’t imagine this is easy for you.”

“Ah, Biggs.” G'raha turns back to the endless snow below him. “What help I need is beyond even my own considerable resources. This - this is not -” His voice dies and he inhales sharply, frustration and despair choking his words. 

“None of us know what you’re going through, sir, but we want to help. In any way we can.”

He closes his eyes. Can they bring back his people? Can they revive their founder, or the Scions, or the Warrior he needs so badly? “I will adjust, Biggs. This is the largest shock of my life, but I must adjust.”

“Would it be easier in your tower?”

“ _No_.” The denial is too quick, too sharp, too powerful. He tries again. “No, thank you. After two hundred years I am rather grateful to find myself breathing fresh air.” He does not mention that he would have preferred the world to not have gone to hell in the interim. “The mind seeks familiarity in times of stress, yet what little I find is tainted by nostalgia and might-have-beens. It is cold comfort, I fear.”

Snow creaks under the Roegadyn’s shifting feet. “We thought not to mention it until the shock wore off, but - if it helps - the graveyard isn’t far from here. The one where they’re buried, I mean.”

Bile floods his mouth and he swallows hard, shuddering against the nausea. It is equally enticing and terrifying and he does not trust himself with it. “Not yet, thank you. I - I would rather help you first.” He turns from the snowy expanse to face the Roegadyn - Biggs the Third, eighteenth president of Garlond Ironworks and the first friendly face he’d seen in over two centuries. It’s a scarred face, worn rough by the elements and war, but some small semblance of the Biggs G'raha once knew remains. “Why did you venture into the tower?”

The man crosses his arms over his enormous chest, worry evident on his pale face. He had not intended to explain this yet, but it is clear he _wants_ to - wants to implement his plan, wants to move forward, wants some kind of progress beyond consoling the strange Miqo’te. “It can wait until tomorrow, sir - when the sun is up, and we’ve eaten, and we aren’t in the cold -”

G'raha holds up his left hand, stopping the man’s excuses. “Please, Biggs. You would not have woken me without reason. What do you need me to do?”

The Roegadyn explains.

*

What a plan. What a devastating, world-changing, monumental plan. Garlond Ironworks had never been one to choose the simple path; it is somewhat reassuring to discover their eighteenth president is just as willing to consider farfetched ideas as their founder once had been.

G'raha had retreated to the tower some few hours earlier, leaving Biggs and the rest of his people behind. He’d climbed that oh-so-familiar staircase, hand gliding along the dusty banister until he reached the room he’d claimed as his own. There, wrapped in sorrow and misery, he’d let himself dissolve.

Biggs hadn’t meant for it to hurt. He hadn’t known, couldn’t have predicted, wouldn’t have said a word had he guessed. The man had only wanted to answer G'raha’s question.

But the plan…

Only that morning G’raha had learned the truth of this world - the ruin, the war, the destruction - and Biggs’s plan is like a flame kindled in ashes. Damned hope remains whether he wants it to or not.

To go back in time - 

To return their hero to the living in order to prevent this blasted future ever taking shape - 

To hold Vahl’s hand one more time - 

He isn’t sure which is more powerful: the hope that they might succeed, or the fear that he does not have the answer they seek. 

Sleep does not come quickly.

*

“Put out the light. It’s late, and Cid wants to meet early tomorrow.”

G'raha has his tongue between his front teeth, brow furrowed in concentration. His fingers move deftly along the grain of his bow, bringing the taut string from one end to the other. It takes him a moment to ensure it’s really there to stay - the last thing he wants is it springing free in his hands - and in that moment strong arms wrap around his waist.

“You’re quick at that.” 

“Practice.” Bow successfully strung, he rests it gently on the table before spinning around. The Warrior of Light stands against him with a look in his eyes that makes G'raha want to nip at his neck - but it's late, isn’t it? “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“It’s cold,” Vahl says, pressing closer. “Come to bed, Raha.”

It _still_ sends a thrill down his neck to hear his nickname voiced so low, even after all this time. He picks up the Hyur’s hands by the wrists and places them on his shoulders. “I could warm you up - if there’s time.”

“Time?” That smile, those teeth, those lips - G'raha’s tail whips back and forth of its own volition. “I will always make time for you.”

_Always -_

The room suddenly stretches to an obscene, impossible length; Vahl’s hands are ripped from G'raha’s shoulders as the Hyur is carried far, far away. The angle switches and they are both falling, plummeting through dark space. Vahl’s face never changes even as his arms reach up - up - up -

“Vahl! _Vahl_!”

_Make time -_

G'raha attempts to dive faster, hoping to catch him, but the air is thick as mud. No matter how hard he struggles or how quickly he moves, the Warrior of Light falls faster.

_Raha -_

Like ashes blown by a cold northern wind, the Warrior scatters across space.

G'raha sits up straight in bed, gulping great mouthfuls of air into his lungs. His skin is clammy and his blankets are tangled around his ankles; the panic coursing through him is slow to dissipate. 

A dream? A memory? 

An echo?

The walls of Syrcus Tower loom over him, dark and close as a tomb. No breeze cools the air, no sound penetrates this space: he is alone, as alone as he’s ever been, and all of his heroes are dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself one day I'd write a G'raha and WoL fic. Little did I know the long and winding road my muse would venture down...


	2. Superman, Where Are You Now?

With the tower unlocked the next step of the Ironworks’ plan begins in earnest. The Ironworks’ engineers gape at the size and intricacy, the richness and wealth on vibrant display as they begin their long ascent up the tower’s massive staircase. Many have pieces of machinery with them, held in bags or tied to their backs: wires and valves, lights and processors, bits and bobs all parade through the grand blue and gold space.

G’raha attempts to be one with the wall, unintrusive and invisible. It’s impossible to be in anyone’s way in a space this size, but he manages to stand out in a way that feels - to him, at least - distracting. His outfit is not the same; his mannerisms are not the same; even his accent is a little different - a little old, a little archaic. It doesn’t help that the engineers sneak glances his way whenever they can: to most of them he was a rumour, a story passed down through generations - a minor character, to be sure, but a name known nonetheless. 

It is odd to think himself a character in history. Vahl had always been the one destined for greatness.

The Warrior of Light died, Biggs had told him, not long after the Tower closed. The Eighth Umbral Calamity had left very few survivors, and Vahl had not been impervious to the poison Garlemald unleashed upon Eorzea. He, and all the Scions and city-state leaders, had perished.

Rather than accept this reality, a band of survivors led by Cid Garlond had decided to take fate into their own hands. What started as an idea to go back in time had morphed into something more concrete: returning to the past to save the Warrior of Light, so that he may prevent the Eighth Umbral Calamity from ever happening.

A tall order, and one G'raha still is not convinced can be achieved. Time travel is a notion from fiction, and adding to that is the nonsense Biggs’s researchers mentioned - aetheric density, other worlds, a deluge of Light aether from a place unknown. It had gone completely over G'raha’s head, though admittedly his mind had been rather occupied with trying not to cry.

What little information that had managed to filter in is thus: saving Vahl could not happen from their own world. They required a portal to another of the mirrored shards, one known as the First. Xande’s throne remains the only known method of accessing these mirrors, so Garlond Ironworks had set about devising a way to open Syrcus Tower.

It had taken them two centuries.

The reality is mind-boggling. A half-formed plan based on uncontrollable factors - a sliver of hope against a world seemingly devoid of future. So they open a portal with Xande’s throne - how do they orient it from the Thirteenth to the First? How do they travel through time? How do they survive a journey through the rift, aiming for a destination which no longer exists in their own time?

How do they continue to hope?

He understands that opening Syrcus Tower is a giant step forward - a task they’ve worked towards for many, many lifetimes - but it makes it no easier for him. He’d assumed he would wake to a flourishing civilization, a world equal to that of mighty Allag, but what exists now is more nightmare than nation.

He’d seen the poverty, the barbed-wire above the walls, the nightly patrols. He is beginning to understand how hard the Ironworks fights for every inch.

Turning his attention from the engineers, he looks down at his hands. The left is bare, while the right…

He curls his fingers. A glove hides his right hand from sight, though it does not prevent his mind from thinking of it. What lies underneath pulls at his thoughts just as surely as the end of the world, yet - 

“A beautiful sight, eh?” Biggs separates from his train of engineers and joins G'raha along the wall, his arms full of cords thick as a Hyur’s arm. “Progress - _finally._ If only Cid could see us now!”

“Progress,” G'raha repeats as he drops his hands to his sides. The word sounds hollow. He’d mustered enthusiasm for the opening of the tower that morning, welcoming the first engineers and finding some of his old energy as they gaped at what awaited them, but it has long since worn thin. 

“I hate to ask any more of you, what with this being a shock already and only your second day in this world - but we could really use your opinion up top. You were there, weren’t you? The last time the portal opened?”

His tongue feels like lead in a mouth full of sawdust. He can only nod as he fights down the demons dogging his memories.

“Not today, of course!” Biggs interprets his expression correctly and worry spreads across his scarred face. “No need for that! We’ll take half a day moving all this damn clutter up there - I don’t expect us to make any real progress until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Tomorrow is still terrifyingly too soon. Tomorrow is a day further away from Vahl, one more day without him, but he cannot prevent time from moving forward. Yesterday is long gone. “I’ll be there at dawn.”

“Thank you, sir.” Genuine, heartfelt gratitude, followed by a sudden hesitancy. “I can understand not wanting to be here longer than you have to, after all the time you spent inside. Feel free to roam outside if you wish! Looking to be a nice, sunny day today.”

It would not be the same, he knows this, but the temptation to see Mor Dhona exists regardless - and any excuse to be outside is one he will take wholeheartedly.

“I’ll do that,” he says, grabbing his staff from where he’d rested it against the wall. “Thank you, Biggs.”

He takes the stairs to the exit more exuberantly than he’d taken them up, passing bemused engineers and workers heading in the other direction. They’re whispering, pointing, revelling in their chance to see him - 

“Did you see?”

“ _Two hundred years_? Looks a day over twenty, he does.”

“A _wizard_ , I heard!”

G'raha doesn’t laugh, but some of the darkness lifts from his heart. He makes a mental note to show them just what type of _wizard_ they’d woken - he imagines they have not had the opportunity for a show for some while, and he has ever been a fan of theatrics.

A hand to shield his eyes does very little against the bright, blinding sun that greets him outside Syrcus Tower. Is it normal to find himself plagued by sunlight, or is it an aftereffect of his many years asleep in darkness? He cannot say - and there is no similar evidence from other cases he can refer to - but he hopes it will wear off quickly. As strange as this new world is, he wants to be out in it as much as he possibly can.

He’d seen glimpses of the town outside the tower last night, but in daylight the scope of it leaves him breathless. What he’d assumed to be a makeshift camp, similar to Saint Coinach’s Find, is closer to a small village. A mass of wood-and-stone buildings spreads across the stone platform at the base of Syrcus Tower; every single ilm has been utilized. The roads are narrow and the buildings are tall, no doubt fitting multiple families in each living space.

That is another shock: _children_. Here, in the wilderness of Mor Dhona! He’d assumed the Ironworks’ settlement a hastily-built necessity to house those who chose to work on the tower, but it appears this is a long-term endeavor. Husbands, wives, children, elders: they live and work in this small space, providing a home for the engineers who labour at the tower. From G'raha’s perch on the steps he can see a market, a street of forges, a church, and even a large low space to one side that appears to house dodos and chickens. 

Surrounding it all, on the very edge of the platform, are four thick stone walls. Towers occupy each corner, but the walls themselves are wide enough for two men to walk abreast. 

His eyes settle on the barbed wire running along the top outer edge. Biggs had hinted that things in the world are not peaceful, but G'raha cannot guess what would try to come over those walls.

Beyond he assumes the cliffs and scrags that make up Mor Dhona persist, but he had only seen the world from the west wall after dark. The north wall would tell him more.

Working up the nerve to walk among the strangers below him takes him a surprising amount of time. It isn’t that he fears them - based on their reactions the day before, some were perilously close to revering him - but he knows he will draw attention. Even wearing his borrowed Ironworks garb of white, blue, and black he stands out: his red eyes and Allagan staff immediately set him apart.

Inhaling deeply, he holds his breath. His gloved hand tightens around his staff as he puffs out his cheeks, finally exhaling in a burst of air. 

He feels no calmer. There is nothing for it but to pick a road and walk.

The staring starts within the first block.

By the time he reaches the center of town a veritable crowd has gathered along the sides of the road, gaping at windows and doorways. His anxiety is a bubbling pit of nerves, broiling and curling in his belly and his lungs, but he forces his feet onwards. His staff taps the ground with every other step, adding a rhythmic quality he manages to focus on to keep his mind off the people nearby.

As he nears the northern wall he finds what he’s looking for: a narrow set of stairs carved into the stone, leading upwards at a steep incline. He carefully takes the steps one at a time; the last thing he needs is to fall flat on his face with so many watching. When he reaches the top he pretends he isn’t the star in this town’s newest spectacle, nodding his head to the two nearest soldiers as calmly as he can. They both stare at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, but let him step up to the parapet wordlessly. 

Keeping his hands to himself, he stares past the barbed wire to the space in front of him. Jagged hills and cliffs mar the land, much as they had done in his time, but his entire view is rendered white. Snow covers everything in a blanket several feet deep, looking much closer to Coerthas than the Mor Dhona he’d known. 

As surprising as the snow is, G'raha’s eyes are drawn further north. What had once been Revenant’s Toll dominates the northern horizon, now a massive fortress painted an unsettling shade of red. Ugly plumes of green smoke rise from beyond its walls, staining an otherwise sapphire sky.

“Excuse me?” He smiles apologetically at the nearest guard, a tall Roegadyn wearing a dented helm over a sheet of midnight-black hair. “I apologize for the bother, but would you be able to tell me what’s happening at Revenant’s Toll?”

She crosses her arms over her chest and stares out across the expanse. Her mouth twists into a scowl; he has the feeling she rathers he’d asked anything but that. “Nothing good, sir.”

“I can see that,” he says mildly. “I’m asking what happened to it to make it that way.”

“It was a quarantine zone, sir - under lockdown sometime after the Calamity. They turned it into a fortress of the kind for keeping people _in_ , not out, as I’ve heard it. The Birdmen have it now.”

Questions, questions, questions - and a mind too overwhelmed to ask them all. What could they have possibly needed a quarantine for? From what little he knows of Black Rose it killed as close to instantly as to make no difference. And - “Birdmen?”

She shoots him a look out of the corner of her pale grey eyes, clearly unsettled by the fact he doesn’t know. “Those who threw in their lot with the Ixal and pledged their lives to Garuda.”

G'raha feels his ears flatten against his head. He hadn’t even considered the primals in all of this, let alone their followers. He realizes now is not the time to delve into those stories; though the sun is bright, the air is cold. “I fear I have more questions than before, but thank you for indulging me.”

“You’d be the mage from the tower?” she asks before he can turn back to the bleak view. There is an intensity in her eyes that wasn’t there before, a yearning that gives him pause. “The one they found yesterday?”

“I am.”

“My husband says you’re going to save us.” Her tone is strange - he cannot easily tell if she agrees with her husband or thinks him mad. “He says you’re the keystone to our plans, but - how can one person make such a difference?”

“I agree with you,” he says. She tilts her head, clearly surprised by his admission, but he continues before she can speak. “I will help, of course, but I doubt I will provide the answer they’re looking for. That would be an overwhelming amount of responsibility, don’t you think? One person to save the world?”

“It’s what we expect of the Warrior of Light.”

“I -” He falters, seeing his argument cut off at the knees. Though the similarities are there, he cannot help but see _this_ situation differently. What he knows will speed up their process, enabling them to unlock Xande’s throne sooner than they would do were he not there. He is not irreplaceable.

Isn’t he?

“I am not the Warrior of Light,” he says, knowing that neither answers the question nor argues against her point. In this moment he cannot work up the inspiration to debate her: thinking about Vahl has reawoken that ache in his heart, a feeling he suspects will become far too familiar. “I am merely the steward of this tower.”

“ _Merely_ , he says,” she snorts, turning from him to gaze out over the land below them. “As if he isn’t two hundred years old.” He sees her suddenly stiffen. “Is that -”

He turns his head a moment before a horn blows from the northeastern watchtower, an alarm that is picked up and carried across the town. Below them bells begin to toll as the townsfolk flee indoors; G'raha watches wide-eyed as the streets empty. Twisting his neck back to the north, he finally sees what set off the alarms: three dark spots in the sky, steadily growing larger.

“Airships,” he murmurs. His anxiety, which had faded to the background after reaching the top of the wall, suddenly blooms even fiercer than before.

 _This_ is why they built the walls.

“Birdmen,” the Roegadyn growls. She grabs his wrist, pulling him in the direction of the stairs. “Get to the tower. We’re too open here - we can’t risk losing you.”

“Losing me?” G'raha repeats, but a burst of flame above one of the distant airships answers that question. The soldier drags him down to the battlement, covering him as an explosion splits the air. It’s almost instantly followed by a close burst of sound, wood and stone shattering as the shot makes contact. Screams send shivers down G'raha’s spine as another boom thunders across the town. The second shot is off-target; it passes over their heads and lands with a crash in the snowy cliffs beyond the western wall.

“Magic?”

“They don’t need magic, do they!” She’s on her knees, face screwed into a snarl. “They’ve got magitek! Come on, cat! On your damned feet!”

G'raha staggers up, his sluggish mind slow to comprehend. “Magitek? In the hands of the Ixal? But Garlemald -”

Another shot from above interrupts him; a house nearby explodes into splinters and ash. 

“Damn whatever Garlemald is! Follow me!” The Roegadyn tugs at his arm, frantic to move from the wall, but G'raha plants his feet.

Those had been _children’s_ screams. 

Flinging his glove to the ground, he takes his staff in his left hand. Light reflects off his crystal-blue right hand, glinting like diamonds in the bright air, but he barely spares it a glance. He can hear the soldier cursing at his side, but he tunes the woman out, turns inwards, shifts his stance and opens his mind as he holds that blue hand outwards - 

Syrcus Tower waits for him.

Aether and tech combined in one, it has been dormant since the fall of Allag. G'raha knows he is far from learning all of its secrets, but he has always been a quick pupil.

He believes he knows enough.

A fourth shot cracks the air.

“Protect!” His staff hits the battlement as he flings his blue hand skyward. Instantly a shining, shimmering, blue-tinted dome of power encapsulates the tiny town at the feet of Syrcus Tower. The cannonball hits it with a dull thud, a tiny sliver of sound before the airships begin to fire in earnest.

_Pock, pock, pock._

Silence descends under the dome. Heads tilt back to stare open-mouthed as shot after shot ricochets off the shield far above them. 

_Pock, pock-pock, pock._

G'raha feels their eyes upon him. He can easily imagine what this scene looks like: a strange Miqo’te from beyond time stands on their outer wall, an ancient staff in one hand while the other nearly blazes from the sunlight shining through it. The dome over the town is enormous, a marvel of magical power even G'raha is a little surprised he’s capable of, and yet he holds it in place with nary a grimace or grunt.

Who wouldn’t take the time to stare?

The attack ends almost as swiftly as it began: as it becomes obvious their magitek is useless, one by one the airships turn away. Cheers echo throughout the town, building to a crescendo as the Ixal retreat with their cannons still bleeding smoke across the sky.

G'raha drops his hand, dispelling the shield with a thought; it morphs into motes of shimmering light before disappearing completely. He stares at the space where it had been, a strange feeling building in his chest. 

Is this what Vahl had felt? Every time he’d been successful - every time he’d saved the day - had he too felt this bizarre sense of surprise? Or had he gone into each adventure knowing he’d live to see the other side?

G'raha wishes he had that confidence. He wishes he could know how this ends, and what his role in it all might be.

The Roegadyn guard suddenly blocks his vision. She throws her dented helm to one side and bends over to look him eye-to-eye; her own eyes are teary-bright. “He was right,” she mutters in disbelief. “The bastard was right.” She pauses while gathering her thoughts. “Can you heal?”

“When necessary,” he replies, before giving his head a shake. She wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t required. “Yes, I can. Where should I go?”

“Follow me.”

G'raha hesitates for only a moment, grabbing his glove from the snowy battlements before hurrying to catch up.

*

Biggs finds him in the healers’ quarters. The Roegadyn is in no mood for pleasantries or nonsense; he makes his way across the long, narrow room without sparing a single look at the other healers or their patients. G’raha glances at him before redirecting his attention to the patient before him, a young Elezen with bandages wrapped around the top of his head. As he concentrates blue aether spirals between his palm and the boy. Almost immediately the youngster’s frown vanishes as he drifts into a deep sleep; G’raha’s conjury cleanses the wound, burning off any infection before repairing flesh. 

“Head wounds are risky,” he says quietly, pitching his voice so as to not wake the Elezen. “Skulls hold delicate cargo, yet even without the bone breaking there is still a risk to the organ within.” He curls his left hand into a fist as he flips it palm up; the blue aether vanishes. “Lucky for this young one it was a glancing blow. He shall recover.”

“Lucky for us all,” Biggs says just as quietly, “that G’raha Tia happened to be on the wall.”

He turns to face the Roegadyn, meeting the man’s intense stare. “You think I risked myself.”

“It was my fault you weren’t aware of the danger,” Biggs replies, shaking his head. “My focus was on the day’s work, and I should have been more thorough. The blame lies with me.”

“The blame lies with the Birdmen,” a new voice interrupts.

Both Biggs and G’raha twist in time to see a Highlander stride through the healer’s quarters. Following him is the black-haired Roegadyn G’raha had met on the wall that morning; he tips his head to her, earning himself a grin, but the man’s freckled face is sombre. 

“I’ll have none of this pointing fingers business, Biggs,” the man continues, stopping beside the Ironworks’ president. His tone implies he’s had this talk before. “Not a single soul lost! Three airships turned aside! This is a _happy_ day, damn you, and if all you can see are the negatives I want you to turn on your heels and march your ass back to the tower!” His arms move as he talks, painting wild pictures in the air, and his explosion of black curls underneath his woolen cap bounce with every exclamation.

“Sir, I -”

“No more!” The man, who stands almost two heads shorter than Biggs, somehow manages to cow the Roegadyn into flinching. “We are _celebrating_ today; I don’t care what anyone says!” He turns to G’raha and the fire in his green eyes shifts to excitement. “Our new hero, eh? I’m not one to look a gift chocobo in the beak, but I must say your timing is impeccable.”

“I would pass that credit on to the Ironworks’ engineers,” he demurs. “Had they not opened the tower when they did, I would still be locked in slumber.”

The man twists at the waist to point to Biggs. “A point to you, sir.” He twists back. “Regardless of who deserves what, I’m grateful! On behalf of Eight Sentinels and myself, thank you for being right where we needed you to be.”

The Roegadyn guard leans over the black-haired man to tap his shoulder. “You haven’t introduced yourself, dear.”

“Ah.” He blinks. “Rolled right in like a blizzard, didn’t I? I’m Derrik, mayor of this fine collection of buildings, and the counter to Biggs’s doom and gloom attitude.”

“I have been quite cheery of late -” Biggs attempts to argue, but the Roegadyn behind Derrik interrupts him.

“This is the husband I spoke of,” she says, patting the man’s shoulder. Like Biggs, she stands over a head taller than the mayor. “Call me Hollwyda - _Captain_ Hollwyda, if you’re feeling formal.”

“Greetings,” G’raha mumbles, names and titles flying past him like snow in a globe. He is beginning to realize he has walked into something far larger than he assumed; it had been a mistake to presume Biggs, being president of the Ironworks, would control the town as well. “Eight Sentinels, you said?”

“Aye, we took the name from the old statues to the north.” Derrik has the type of energy G’raha normally admires, but in such a closed, quiet space he becomes an inferno. It is not difficult to understand why such a man would be chosen to lead these people. “But we’ll regale you with our piss-poor history another time. I have buildings to inspect and I suppose you have your own business to worry about, so!” He holds out his hand, which G’raha warily takes, but the mayor gives two firm shakes before dropping it. “We’ll find you later, ‘mage from the tower’.” 

He watches Derrik and Hollwyda leave, a muddle of emotions squirming through his chest. He likes them - and he's grateful they're patient with him - but every new interaction leads to more questions, more thoughts unanswered, and the gaping, looming thought he can’t distract himself from - 

What would Vahl think of this?


	3. Beta Testing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild spoilers for Tales from the Shadows: A World Forsaken.

G'raha stands off to one side, arms cradling his Allagan staff as he watches the researchers work. The circular area before Xande's throne buzzes with activity and voices, busier than it had been even in G'raha's time. Dozens of workers in Ironworks blue and white fill the gold and blue floor, some with gadgets in hand, others running wires from the golden monstrosity to their own machines. 

He’s trying not to think about the last time he stood here, trying not to think about who stood with him or why, trying not to miss the feel of another’s hand in his.

It shouldn’t have happened. It shouldn’t have been a possibility. Vahl was supposed to save their world - they’d banked _everything_ on him.

And now Biggs is doing it again.

If energy is contagious G'raha must be immune. He feels every year etched into his bones as he watches the researchers chitter and jabber, watches Biggs oversee the whole process as a director would oversee a play, and yet - nothing. No stirrings of hope, of gratitude, of desire to throw himself into the work. Rather, he becomes more dejected and depressed the longer he watches.

Could he have saved…?

“G'raha!” Biggs approaches warily, his shoulders hunched as he narrows the distance between them. A small mechanical creature follows behind, a black and silver construct that barely reaches the Roegadyn’s ankles. “I have something for you.”

His eyes are drawn to the creation. Were he to come across it in the wild he would think it an overly large bug, but the motions of its processors and engine are without a doubt mechanical. Four awkward legs support a rotund body; the head is discernible only by the thin yellow light running horizontally across it. Having seen some machines before, G'raha recognizes that yellow light is a visual processor - the equivalent to a living being’s eyes. “A toy?”

“Gods, no. This here mech recorded all of Master Cid and Master Nero’s notes - it assisted both of the top minds of Garlond Ironworks!” He looks down at the strange creation with fondness in his eyes, like a father might look at a son. “I thought you might want to examine it - to see if there is any correlation between their theories and what the Tower is capable of.”

“I must admit, the science of this is largely beyond me -” He pauses and tilts his head to one side. This little creature is likely the only being as old as he is in the entire world - what is the harm in seeing what it might say? “But perhaps there is an overlap.”

“Excellent!” Biggs rests his hands on his hips, watching the little mech trot between them. “I should be honest: we aren’t too sure how to replicate the portal - was it opened through magical means or mechanical, or even a combination of the two? And if we open it ourselves, what’s to say it doesn’t take us right back to the Thirteenth?” He shakes his head, but there’s a light in his eyes - it is a hunt, a puzzle, something he can work towards. He’s excited by the prospect, even if the possibilities worry him. “Well - I’ll leave the two of you alone and get back to my machines. Good luck!”

Silence. G'raha stares at the mech as it stares back at him. “Do you have a - a name?”

“I am designated OMG,” the mech replies, its voice stilted and higher than G'raha anticipated. “Master Cid referred to me as Beta.” Something similar to a periscope extends out of its back, shining a dim light towards his feet. “Greetings, Master of the Tower.”

G'raha balks at the name. Though the rational part of his brain argues that yes, he is indeed the only living person who can command Syrcus Tower, being called so feels alien and undeserving. “G'raha is fine, please.”

“Acknowledged. Updating.” The mech’s little legs raise it up and down as the information processes. “Greetings, G'raha.”

“Hello, Beta.” Awkwardness rises to drown him. How does one converse with a tiny, ancient robot? Does it have feelings, emotions - thoughts? Is it forming an opinion of him even now? Faint traces of panic stir him to speech. “Did Cid create you?”

“Negative.”

The mech doesn’t elaborate. Perhaps it doesn’t know? G'raha is struck by the sudden fear that it is rude to ask a robot how it came to be and fumbles for a change in topic. “Was using Xande’s throne your idea?”

“Negative.” Voiced in the same tone as before, it is impossible to tell if the little creature thinks the question as ridiculous as G'raha believes it to be. “I am here to record and compile data. I am not equipped with the necessary functions to extrapolate beyond the information saved within my processors.” It hesitates for a moment before adding, “Masters Cid and Nero outlined the majority of our plans; the probability of successfully completing our mission is higher than most assume.”

G'raha doesn’t know enough to have an opinion. Their chance of success seems small from his point of view, but he understands that the Ironworks has been in the miracle business longer than he has been locked in Syrcus Tower. The thought evokes heavy nostalgia; he folds his legs under him to sit cross-legged on the crystal-blue floor, his staff across his lap. “I imagine you’ve seen quite a lot - if you traveled with Cid after the Calamity, and you’re still in one piece now, that’s a lot of data to have stored.”

“My collection began earlier: I had a companion, a yellow-feathered friend.” It is hard to imagine a machine sounding pleased, but somehow Beta’s vocal processors convey pleasure. “After the Warrior of Light set us free we traveled Eorzea together.”

G’raha is rather glad he chose to sit; the world has somehow tilted and he finds his head cradled in his hands. Yesterday’s agony crushes his lungs yet again, but he forces the words across his tongue. “You knew Vahl.”

“I was acquainted with him.” The mech bobs up and down, a movement that seems to symbolize internal thinking - or, more likely, a reordering and cataloguing of data. “You were also acquainted with him.”

He shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t go anywhere near this topic. He should walk over to the engineers and offer his assistance, the better to proceed with this experiment and distract himself from the crater that was once his healthy, loving heart - 

“What records do you have of me? And him? Us, together?”

Beta begins to bob up and down as it compiles information, but fear festers faster.

“Nevermind - please. Forget I asked.” G'raha covers his face with his hands, willing himself to have control. Whether or not anyone recorded their relationship, it will not help him. Walking that path leads only to pain.

“Anomaly detected.” There is a click-clack of sound as the mech covers the distance between them; he peaks between his fingers to see the periscope pointed directly at his right hand. “Unable to categorize - unfamiliar substance. Create new datalog?”

A shake of his sleeve and the blue, crystalline hand is quickly covered. “No. It’s nothing. It’s a part of me.” Idiot, to forget his glove. Stupid, to let anyone see. Fool, to think it means nothing.

It isn’t a part of him - it means _he_ is becoming a part of _it_.

Beta seems disinclined to believe him. “Substance is spreading. Time until substance spreads completely: undetermined. Lethality of substance: undetermined.”

“Stop.” His teeth grind against each other; he allows the temptation to throw the mech off the tower to pass unheeded. “Please. I know what it is and am capable of controlling it.”

The mech seems to want to argue - or at least throw him one more _undetermined_ \- but two of the engineers approach them cautiously. Beta scuttles around to face the newcomers, retracting the periscope as it settles near G'raha’s knee.

“Greetings!” The engineer on the left, a bald Hyur covered in scars, waves exuberantly. His partner, a yellow-eyed Lalafell with a deep scar across her chin and cheek, watches wordlessly. “I understand we have you to thank for our presence here.”

“I suppose.” G'raha wouldn’t have worded it quite like that - he had given them permission, yes, but _they_ had been the ones to discover how to open the tower. “What can I do for you?”

“We - that is, myself and the lovely Kokoju Koju behind me - were hoping for a retelling of what happened the first time this portal opened.” The man’s speech is quick, confident, with traces of an accent that reminds G'raha of Limsa Lominsa. “Did they flick a switch? Cast a spell? We’ve been unable to find a manual override of any kind on the throne itself.”

“Or anywhere nearby,” the Lalafell adds, her voice as high as the Hyur’s is low. Her pale yellow eyes are disconcerting orbs that bounce back and forth between G’raha and Beta.

G'raha looks from them to the throne, unable to summon the energy to foster a smile. As distant as he is from that moment in time, he can still recall standing there with Cid, the Warrior of Light, and a cluster of engineers. He’d had a headache, a fiery migraine centered around his red eye, but he’d fought past it to watch the Ironworks team do its work.

Except - 

“It wasn’t here,” he says, half-seeing the throne as it is now, but overlaid with memories: Cid, his hand raised to his ear, and the rest gathering to watch light blaze from each pillar. “Biggs - the Biggs of my time, not yours - wasn’t on this floor. He had a machine, and a switch…” He shakes his head as the memory ends. “I’m sorry. I don’t know more.”

“Not on this floor,” the Hyur mumbles, stroking his chin with thick fingers. “That’s a puzzle, but it solves one mystery: mechanical!” He turns and runs back to the other engineers, already beginning to redirect them.

Kokoju nods her thanks, though her expression hasn’t changed. “If anything comes to you, please let us know.”

“Of course,” G’raha says, as though he isn’t going to do his damned best to avoid every memory associated with this place. The Lalafell turns to follow her fellow, leaving G’raha alone with Beta. He glances down at the little mech, which vibrates slightly at his feet. “I suppose you don’t have any information about this?”

“Preliminary notes salvaged from Master Cid and Master Nero regarding the nature of Syrcus Tower, how it relates to Allagan civilization, and the implications reopening the tower has for future civilizations.” Beta bobs up and down. “Datalogs missing: Xande’s throne, power sources required, method and implementation of travel between worlds, implications of said travel, implications for Allagan technology -”

“I understand,” G’raha interrupts, holding up his blue hand. The mech immediately swivels to study it; G’raha again hides it under his sleeve. “Why are they missing?”

“Much was lost. Master Cid attempted to recover or reconstruct as many datalogs as possible, but Garlond Ironworks had bases throughout Eorzea. He was unable to reach every location after the Calamity.”

“What about the Waking Sands?”

Beta’s legs convulse for so long G’raha fears he’s broken the tiny thing, but eventually he has a response. “Undetermined.”

A spike of nerves shoots through G’raha’s core. “The Rising Stones?”

Another long pause, broken only by the continued murmurs from the engineers. “Undetermined.”

It could mean nothing. Cid had worked with many different organizations even during G’raha’s time; there is no reason to assume he stored information with the Scions.

But surely the Scions would keep their own records…?

“Biggs!” G’raha clambers to his feet, striding over to the working group with a sudden burst of energy. “Question for you!”

The Roegadyn adjusts his glasses, peering down at him as he hands off a blueprint to an engineer. “Hopefully I have an answer.”

“Is there a historian in Eight Sentinels I might speak with? Or a record-keeper? Someone who might know about excursions Cid and earlier generations undertook?”

“Luck continues to go your way,” he says, a small smile tilting his mouth. “Kokoju!”

The tiny Lalafell leaves her mountain of papers and books behind to join them, those unnerving yellow eyes sliding from Biggs, to G’raha, to Beta and back.

G’raha glances at the Roegadyn, who gestures for him to speak. “What records do we have from the Rising Stones or Waking Sands?”

Her enormous eyes widen even further. “The Scions’ headquarters? I would need to check - Revenant’s Toll has been off-limits for over a century, and Vesper Bay -”

“We aren’t going anywhere near Horizon,” Biggs interrupts, suddenly stern. “Out of the question.”

“Why?”

The Roegadyn rests large hands on his hips. He doesn’t want to say, but he knows he owes G’raha. “Horizon’s one of the few aetherytes still functioning. You won’t like the type of folk who’ve laid claim to it.”

“The Scions’ record-keeper and historian was based in Vesper Bay,” G’raha argues. He doesn’t know where this newfound determination and drive were dredged from, but he isn’t going to let them go to waste. Hearing Biggs’s attempts to block him only render him more obstinate. “Beta says we’re missing information - information I _know_ was shared with the Scions.” He looks back and forth between the Roegadyn and the Lalafell, seeing doubt and denial on both their faces, and his damned determination inspires another step. “I’ll do it. I’ll go.”

“No -“ Biggs begins, but Kokoju interrupts him. 

“The airship.” She turns to the Roegadyn, resting her small fists on her hips as she glares up at him. “We can fly to Vesper Bay - if we follow Cinderfoot River we should bypass any watching eyes, and Vesper Bay has never had an aetheryte. We could be in and out in less than an hour.”

“And if it’s buried under sand? If pirates have taken up in the harbour? If the tunnel between Horizon and the bay has finally been unearthed, what then?”

“Then we simply return without landing.” G’raha directs his question to the historian, understanding that Biggs will not easily back down. “Who can fly the airship?”

“Derrik,” she says, beginning to move in the direction of the stairs. Excitement flushes her cheeks as she backs away; the idea has already taken hold. “He would do it, Biggs! He’d get us there!”

“Come on,” G’raha says to the tiny mech at his feet. The anguish on Biggs’s face is not easy to ignore, but some things are more important than half-founded worries. Though he has no idea what might be waiting for them - or if Biggs’s fear is in any way justified - the prospect of _doing_ something will not allow him to rest. He wants to leave, wants to see Eorzea as it has become, and if that means excavating whatever is left of the Waking Sands then he shall grab a shovel with the rest of them.

It is a long, exhausting run down the swirling staircase. Kokoju scurries in front of him, taking two steps for each one of his, and Beta scuttles behind. He doesn’t know if Biggs chose to follow, but his mind can’t stop thinking about the fear he’d glimpsed in the president’s eyes. Perhaps this idea is rash and dangerous, but what is the alternative? How many more generations will pass before they stumble upon the answer? If an afternoon’s work can save them _years_ \- is the risk not worth that cost?

Vahl would’ve done it. He’d have been off on his own, with or without an airship to get him there.

Once out of the tower he follows Kokoju across Eight Sentinels to a small building near the center of town. They find Derrik on the front step, deep in conversation with one of the healers G’raha had worked with the day before, but he stops as soon as he sees them.

“The airship, Derrik,” Kokoju says, her high voice almost shrill as she skids to a stop at the bottom of the steps. “Is it ready to fly?”

Surprise flitters across the mayor’s face, but only for an instant. A grin twists one side of his mouth; he turns to the healer, pats her on the shoulder almost as an apology, and steps down to stand between Kokoku and G’raha. “Where are we going?”

*

“I have to say, it’s been a moment since I’ve flown this bird.” Derrik snaps goggles over his eyes, magnifying his irises to a comical size. He glances over his shoulder, watching Hollwyda untie the chains that anchor the massive airship. “Not that it ever really leaves you, but if takeoff isn’t smooth don’t let it bother you.”

“Consider me bothered,” Hollwyda mutters, throwing a length of chain to the stone below them. She’d insisted she join them, explaining that security is a necessity she is not willing to trust to anyone else. Two other guards have joined as well: Miqo’te twins, they stand near the back of the airship, tails snapping back and forth anxiously. They’d been introduced as W'muhj and W’cheruh, though G’raha could not say which is which.

It had been a surprise to walk around the back of Syrcus Tower and find a large airship moored in its shadow, but Derrik had assured him it made the most sense. They weren’t going to hide it away from Eight Sentinels, as anything outside the walls would fall prey to scavengers, and hiding it in Syrcus Trench had proven too difficult to navigate. 

“You don’t fly often?” G’raha asks. He’d offered to help with the launch, but had quickly discovered he knew less than anyone else onboard regarding how to prepare an airship for flight. He and Kokoju had delegated themselves to watching the rest work.

“If the gods wanted me to fly they’d have given me wings,” Hollwyda mutters, wiping her hands on her trousers before sighing. “My apologies - I’m bitter when I’m nervous. No, I don’t like to fly. If Derrik wasn’t the only pilot we have I’d never leave the ground, but I’m not about to leave his protection to anyone else. Couldn’t sit still waiting at home, knowing he’s off in the world.”

“I know the feeling,” G’raha murmurs. Not that he and Vahl had shared a home - it had been inns, or tents, or shared spaces with private rooms - but in the months between charting the labyrinth and their final, frantic rush through the Thirteenth G’raha had often found himself left behind. Vahl had been pulled in so many directions - recruiting Crystal Braves, hunting the traitor in Ul’dah, killing more primals than G’raha could ever be comfortable with - that there had been weeks where the two hadn’t seen each other. He had been busy with his own work, of course, but that could never completely negate the worry sifting at the back of his mind.

“Ah, look what we have here.” Hollwyda leans over the edge of the airship, resting one boot on the ledge. “Changed your mind?”

G’raha can’t help but grin as Biggs stops near the gangway. The Roegadyn has a trio of Ironworks employees behind him; he shoos the Duskwight, Midlander, and Au Ra onto the deck with a wave of his hand.

“I still think this is a risk!” the president shouts, his deep voice easily carrying above deck. “But I can’t deny we need that information. Beta will stay with me, but these three can handle the tech side of things.” His eyes shift to G’raha. “Don’t endanger yourself. Don’t trust anybody you don’t know. If Hollwyda gives you an order you damn well follow, understood?”

G’raha arches an eyebrow. Whether the Roegadyn feels responsible for him as a charge or as an employee, he can’t deny he appreciates the sentiment. “I haven’t made it this far to die in a desert, Biggs.”

“You don’t get to choose where your story ends.” Looking unusually grim, he turns away. “I’ll expect a full report when you return.”

“Doom and gloom, didn’t I tell you?” Derrik joins them at the side of the airship, watching the Ironworks’ president walk away. “Don’t let him worry you - we scout over Thanalan every now and then, and no one’s shot at us for years!” He turns away before G’raha can find his tongue. “Are we ready? Are we eager for the skies?”

The small crew cheers, while Hollwyda, her guards, and the three Ironworks engineers exchange anxious looks. Derrik makes his way to the enormous steering wheel near the middle of the ship, gliding his palms over the gilded wood. Everything about the airship is old, but it is meticulously cared for; G’raha has no doubt it is safe to fly.

“Why is Derrik a pilot _and_ your mayor?” G’raha asks Hollwyda quietly as the crew begins take-off procedures. “Isn’t that a risk?”

Hollwyda rolls her eyes. “If you’d like to tell him that he can only do one or the other, _please_ \- be my guest.” She gives G’raha a reassuring grin as she claps him on the back. “Sit tight, cat. We’ll be in Thanalan before you know it.”


	4. Pray Return To

G’raha hasn’t left the bow of the airship since take-off. His fingers ache from grasping the cold metal railing but he can’t look away from the land passing below them, can’t convince himself to sit somewhere else. There are tears on his cheeks and he doesn’t know if they’re from the biting wind or the destruction before him.

Somewhere in Northern Thanalan the land switched from ice and rock to earth and jagged mountains. The ruins of Castrum Meridianum blacken the western coast, the twisted metal frames curled and splintered over charred remains; nothing is left of the Garlean outpost save hulking remnants and destroyed magitek. The land beyond is rock and dirt for malms and malms; there are no buildings to break up the view, no tents or aetherytes to give any indication of Ul’dah’s old outposts.

The further they fly south the more the landscape changes, but not for the better. Cinderfoot River is a sludging brown mess, the oil from Meridianum curling along the surface in a slick rainbow of colour. Pollution brings the water to a frothy mess along the riverbank, covering the rocks and sand with unsettling beige foam.

As the river widens the land around it begins to soften, from rocks and crags to endless seas of sand. Banks rise and fall, shifting even as G’raha watches. Any landmarks he might have recognized are gone, buried by nature.

Kokoju watches him. Her giant yellow eyes aren’t hard to miss over the top of her book, but he can’t bring himself to speak with her. Words left him before they passed Mor Dhona’s snowy boundary; as badly as he wants to curl into a ball, he forces himself to watch.

They spot one settlement on the northern bank, but Derrik gives it a wide berth. Whether or not the inhabitants are well-meaning is unknown and no one wants to take that risk. G’raha watches the wooden outpost disappear, filled simultaneously with burning curiosity and utter dread.

Who are the remnants of people still left in this world? What have they done to ensure their survival?

What are they willing to do to keep living?

By the time the sand disappears below craggy hills G’raha finds himself bowed over the railing. He wipes away tears with his gloved hand, turning his head from Kokoju as he does, but she catches the movement. 

“You knew the Warrior of Light, didn’t you?” Her high voice carries; he can sense others’ eyes upon them. “You journeyed to the Thirteenth together.”

Though her intention is to distract him from his misery, her topic of choice could not be worse. For a moment he’s back at the top of Syrcus Tower, catching Vahl in his arms as he stumbles free of the portal to the Thirteenth - but he’s not, he isn’t, there is no one in his arms because Vahl _died_. 

“I did,” he manages to say, his voice strangled by grief. He keeps his head bowed and angled to the west, desperately hoping she will ask a different question.

“What was he like?”

“I -” He falters. Where to start? How to possibly explain everything Vahl had been - not only to him, but to the entire world? He can’t - he _can’t_ \- but he has to say _something_. Taking a shuddering breath, he answers her question with one of his own. “Do your histories ever make mention of how we knew each other?”

“Only that you worked together to open and seal Syrcus Tower.”

“Ah.” That explains the bluntness of her questions, but it still manages to hurt. He can’t expect history to record every little detail, but they had been open about their relationship - surely at least one historian would have noted the Warrior of Light’s lover? He shakes his head, attempting to clear the negative thoughts from his mind, but when he opens his eyes to the brown view ahead of him the sorrow digs inwards, settling like a stone in the pit of his stomach. “I would prefer not to speak of him, please. It is still - still too close, if that makes any sense.”

“His death, you mean?”

What _does_ he mean? A glimpse of blue water on the horizon makes him stand up straight; the Rhotano Sea is just ahead. They are nearing their destination.

“Losing him,” he says, so quietly only Kokoju can hear. He glances at her, understanding the confusion in her eyes, and forces a smile on his face. “We were close. I understand he is a legend to you, but to me he was -” He chokes, but the words _so much more_ echo in his head.

She stands and moves closer to him, resting one small hand on his gloved fingers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

He nods, shrugs, bobs his head - anxiety and guilt swarm him again. Could he answer her questions, were he stronger? Would the truth be easier to voice were he more resilient? 

Or is he simply not ready for her pity?

“I’ll tell you more one day,” he says quietly, promising it not only to her, but to himself. “But not today.”

She nods silently and backs away, glancing to the widening blue horizon. G’raha turns with her, unease and nerves turning his belly into a knot. As the river meets the sea they turn north, following the coastline to the little space of land that had once been known as Vesper Bay.

It’s immediately obvious that Biggs’s fear of pirates is unfounded: the harbour no longer exists. The space along the shore is a mess of rock and stone, collapsed walls and rotting docks barely visible under the constant crash of the surf. What was once a large curved tunnel leading east is a mess of rock, stone, and sand: whether blasted apart on purpose or done in by time and nature, there is no longer a road between Vesper Bay and Horizon. Most of the buildings are also destroyed, but a large statue in the center still stands. It looks vaguely Lalafell-shaped, though the details have been lost to the harsh, scouring winds. 

Derrik lands the airship at the old harbour, his rear propellers kicking up great storms of sand. Everyone aboard ducks to the deck, covering their faces until he finally cuts the engine and the gales die down.

“Depressing,” Hollwyda mutters, the first of them to speak. Though G’raha had never been here himself, he can only agree.

From the ground the disuse and age are more obvious. Sand has begun to reclaim all of it, creeping up the remaining walls and pillars, burying stairs and encrusting windows and doors. What trees had once dotted the town are gone, leaving only thin, ash-grey trunks.

“Careful here,” Hollwyda cautions him as they drop the gangway. “If this place was deserted after Black Rose, you’re likely to find some remains.”

G’raha swallows hard. “They wouldn’t have been buried?”

“Who would remain to bury them?” She shakes her head, her eyes distant. “Any survivors would have fled at the first sign of it. With the harbour in disrepair I doubt anyone’s tried to clear this space - what use does it have, with no aetheryte or farmable land? Be careful where you walk, cat.”

He watches Hollwyda and the engineers descend first, stepping gingerly into ankle-deep sand. As bright as the sun is, it gives off little warmth: perhaps it is the depressing situation or scenery, but he feels chilled to the bone. Kokoju goes next, her enormous book bound to her back as she totters carefully in the sinking footprints the others left behind, and then it is G’raha’s turn.

A sudden burst of weariness nearly forces him to his knees. One of the soldiers and Derrik both reach for him, catching either arm before he stumbles, but his staff clatters down the wooden planks to land with a _poof_ in the sand.

“Are you alright?” Derrik’s fingers are tight as his eyes roam over G’raha, searching for some sign of illness or wound. “What’s wrong?”

“I - I don’t know.” He shakes his head frantically, which helps the vertigo not in the least, but the weakness begins to fade. His limbs feel like stone blocks, as though he’d been running for malms and malms, and he wants nothing more than to sleep. “I’m suddenly _very_ tired.”

“Can you walk?”

He grits his teeth. After his show with the shield the day before his sudden inability to even stand is an embarrassing surprise. He pulls himself up, gulping great breaths of air, and stays still until the land stops spinning. Slowly, one foot at a time, he makes his way down the gangway on shaking knees, the other Miqo’te and Derrik on either side of him.

“Here,” Kokoju says, his staff in her hands. As soon as he reaches the ground he grabs it and holds on, panting as though he’d run a marathon. The helping hands let go and he is able to balance on his own, a surprisingly grueling experience. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees Derrik and Hollwyda exchanging worried looks and can’t help a moment of bitterness.

His black glove catches his eye. He rubs his hidden crystal hand against his thigh, worry blossoming in his chest as he flounders his way across the sandy harbour. He’d been fine before this - perfectly fine! There is no reason for the weakness, the nausea, the weariness that drags him to the earth! 

Teeth clenched, he forces himself forward. The others have already pried open the rotting wooden doors of the largest building; one of the soldiers is busy digging a path through sand and collapsed bookcases.

“Grab some shovels,” Derrik says, tossing one to every person except G’raha. “The stairs are going to be a right bastard to clear, but with any luck the door at the bottom has held. I don’t fancy digging out the entire set of tunnels, eh?”

As the rest set to work, G’raha falls to his knees in the corner of the room. It isn’t the sand or the sun, but a bone-deep exhaustion dragging him down, down, down. His very thoughts are muddled, a mess of conjecture and fanciful nonsense - he has to bite his tongue to keep from blabbering aloud. Time seems to move sideways, sliding him through memories and emotions as he kneels in drifts of sand.

A hand suddenly clasps his shoulder, throwing him from his frenzied thoughts to the dusty, dark space. Derrik stares down at him, a scarf wrapped over his mouth and nose and sand coating his face above it. “Perhaps you should return to the airship.”

G’raha shakes his head. “No - no, I’m fine. When you’re finished clearing the sand -”

“We did finish,” the mayor says quietly. “We’re about to open the door, but if you’re ill -”

 _“I’m fine.”_ He meets the man’s bright green eyes; by strength of will alone he maintains eye contact. “I need to see it.”

The struggle to stand is embarrassing; the journey downstairs even more so. He is reduced to taking the steps one at a time like an elder, relying on his staff as though it were a walking stick. His breath whistles through his teeth as he pants, sucking in great lungfuls of dusty air through clenched teeth. The same Miqo’te who’d held him on the airship - W’cheruh, he thinks - attempts to help him again, but he shakes off the stranger’s hand. Determination and pride demand he do this alone, but his back is slick with sweat by the time he stands in front of the doors. Hollwyda, Derrick, Kokoju, and the three engineers wait for him; the soldiers return to keep watch near the building’s front steps.

“Go on,” he pants, gesturing to the doors. “I’ll follow.”

Hollwyda and the Elezen put their shoulders to the doors; he watches them brace, nod to each other, and on the count of three both throw all their weight against the wood. The doors crash inwards, tumbling the two into darkness.

“Oi!” Derrik staggers in after his wife. “Get us a light in here!”

The engineers hold aloft small magitek lanterns; they give off an eerie, green glow that takes a few moments to adjust to. When they do - 

“Oh, gods.” Hollwyda sounds ill. “May the twelve have mercy.”

“I’m going to be sick.” The small Au Ra pushes past G’raha to stumble up the steps. He hears her retching a few moments later and fights hard to keep his own breakfast in his belly.

Corpses litter the floor, the bones and scraps of cloth jumbled together like trash. They line the walls and lay on benches, limbs propped against hard surfaces like marionettes with snapped strings. 

“A tomb,” Kokoju whispers.

“What’s wrong with their skin?” The Elezen sounds no better than his Au Ra companion, though it is hard to tell if his skin has turned as green as it seems under the magitek lights.

“Mummification,” the Lalafell mutters, stepping far closer to one of the bodies than G’raha could ever will himself to do. “The air is dry enough. It stopped them from rotting - that’s why there isn’t a smell.”

G’raha’s stomach flip-flops as he realizes that is _skin_ stretched over bone, like leather drying on a frame. He breathes hard through his mouth, clutching his staff with both hands as he wills himself to stay where he is.

Vahl had walked here - Vahl and his closest friends. If there is any chance for Cid’s plan to work, they have to look.

“Come on,” he says, moving past Kokoju. “I know there’s a library down the hall.”

Turning a corner reveals the room he wants - and many, _many_ more bodies. Another wave of weariness stops him, followed by a burst of nausea. He can only watch as the others move in front of him, spreading out across the dark, low-ceilinged room. Kokoju seems the least affected by it all, moving immediately to the ancient bookshelves to begin her search. The engineers, seeing that there is nothing resembling magitek of any kind, quickly retreat to sunlight.

“Books,” Derrik murmurs, shaking his head at the magnitude of the task ahead of them. “We’ve worked with datalogs for so long I never expected pen and paper. What do you think they cover?”

“Records from before the Seventh Umbral Calamity,” Kokoju replies, gently placing a thick tomb on the ground so she can hold her lantern over the faded pages. “About the Garlemald Empire and Dalamud.”

“Too far back,” G’raha says. “At least five years too early.”

“Then we dig deeper,” Hollwyda grunts. She points to the shelves along the back. “I’ll start there. You two pick spots in the middle.”

G’raha hobbles halfway between the Roegadyn and Derrik, deciding - for his swirling head’s sake - to start at the bottom shelf. A corpse lies collapsed not far away; though the majority of its body is a bundle one arm stretches towards the hallway, locked for eternity in a reach. He pulls his eyes away from it, focusing on the shelf in front of him. Most of the books have titles embossed along their spines, saving him the risk of pulling them out to read them.

As strange as it is to read by green light, it is stranger still to do so in a room with remains scattered about the floor. G’raha finds his attention repeatedly drawn to the nearest corpse; the texture of its skin, the scraps of faded cloth along its chest, the thin, skeletal fingers reaching, reaching - reaching for what? For help? Assistance? Even with death pressing in against them, this person had still _wanted._

Had Vahl...

“How do we know what to take or not?” Derrik asks, interrupting G’raha’s dark thoughts. “If there is a chance something will help Biggs later on -”

“We’ll take as much as we can,” Kokoju announces, her enormous eyes reflecting the green lights, giving her the appearance of an undersea creature revealed to light for the first time. “I have a few crates on the airship - if someone can convince those engineers to help, they can carry some back.”

“I’ll go,” Derrik volunteers, dusting off his hands on his jacket. “This one is all about the Dragonsong War - not quite where we want to be.”

G’raha barely hears them. He’s pulled out a book written in a graceful, flowing hand, the author of which describes in minute detail a series of battle undertaken by Vahl, with Cid and Nero’s assistance. One description in particular stands out: a large black and silver mechanical creature, standing on four legs and imbued with remarkable power.

“Beta?” he whispers, frowning at the passage. It cannot be, yet - he settles himself against the bookshelf, digging deeper into the pages as curiosity wins him over.

His feet have begun to go numb when he hears his name. He glances up, immediately realizing he’s sat still for far too long, but pushes past his discomfort when he sees Kokoju in front of him. She has an open book in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other; her eyes are teary bright.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” she asks quietly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He gapes at her until she hands him the paper. He takes it gingerly, seeing a blank side until he turns it over.

It is a tiny painting, a quick caricature done by an amateur in simple, faded colours. On the left is a red-haired Miqo’te, one eye painted a bright crimson. On the right is a dark-haired Hyur. The Hyur’s eyes are closed as he leans sideways; his lips kiss the Miqo’te’s cheek. Underneath them both is a scribble in the artist’s writing: _G’raha and Vahl, Valentione’s_.

He can’t help tracing Vahl’s outline with one finger. He’d forgotten sitting for this picture - it had been a month or so after they’d met, and Vahl had wanted to wander Gridania during the celebration. The painting had been a spur of the moment idea - G’raha’s own, if he remembers correctly - and Vahl had laughed the entire time.

If this copy is here, protected within one of the Scions’ journals, that must mean Vahl had entrusted it to them. For safekeeping, or because he couldn’t stand the sight of it?

It is impossible to know. G’raha hopes it is the former, but based on the world’s lack of records mentioning their relationship he can’t help but wonder if Vahl had wanted it hidden. 

The silence finally registers. Both Kokoju and Hollwyda kneel in front of him, worried expressions on their faces. 

This isn’t how it was supposed to happen. This isn’t when or where he’d wanted to say this - but as emotion chokes his voice, as Kokoju’s lip quivers and Hollwyda mutters a quiet curse, he realizes he no longer has a choice.

“I loved him,” he says finally, his voice escaping in a shattered crack. “And he loved me.”

“Oh, G’raha.” Hollwyda looks from him to Kokoju, but there is nothing either of them can say as he holds the painting to his chest and bows his head, as the tears come hot and fast. His haggard breathing echoes through the musty, dark tomb, amplified into a wretched sound he hates to hear, and Derrik’s sudden reappearance does nothing to help. Horror and embarrassment cannot curb the dismal loneliness that cuts through G’raha’s heart; he can only feel relieved that he is too exhausted to sob. 

What a fool, to come here chasing history and not be prepared when he finds it -

What an embarrassment, to fall apart so completely in the company of these near-strangers -

What an exhausted relic, a devastated heart, a hopeless soul tossed adrift in time - 

What a pathetic child he is, lost at the end of the world.

*

Their return flight is quiet. The sun has begun its descent, staining the sky with brilliant orange and purple hues, but G’raha’s attention is captured by the little painting. Though it isn’t realistic and only passably done, it is the first real reminder he’s had of Vahl. It is a small testament to the time they shared, to the memories only he can recall.

It had happened. It had been real. _They_ had been real.

Crates full of books fill their airship’s storage, though Kokoju and the engineers have pulled a few out to gloss over. They sit scattered around the deck, lounging with books in piles and frowns on their faces. Though G’raha knows he should help, he is grateful they allow him space. Loneliness drags at him even now. 

There is a strange moment when the exhaustion that had plagued him since landing begins to dissipate. By the time they are preparing to land he is returned to his old self, his feet sturdy and his head clear.

“You’re looking better,” Hollwyda comments as the airship begins its descent. She means it as a compliment, a silver lining in an unexpectedly bad afternoon, but the reinforcement only worries him further.

Syrcus Tower dominates his vision. He cranes his neck back to watch it as they land, staring up at the brilliant blue crystalline form. His right hand opens and closes, hidden in his glove.

For all that he hopes it is a coincidence, he knows he cannot leave it at that. Whatever he is now, he started as a scholar - for a hypothesis to persevere he must test it.

He will need to convince Derrik to fly again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's left comments and kudos so far! G'raha will have easier days in his future - just maybe not his immediate future....


	5. Temporary Stasis

Biggs assembles teams to pour over the books and notes recovered from the Waking Sands. G’raha volunteers to help, driven again by that surprising need to do _something_ , to keep his mind occupied in any way he can. The researchers set up camp in a room half-way up the tower; it is furnished with ancient chairs and divans, providing at least a comfortable place to read. 

And read they do, devouring book after book. G’raha can barely keep his notes straight, pulling every memory from his scholarly life to the forefront as he’s forced to cross-reference and confirm minuscule points of data. Beta assists them, it’s robotic eyes scanning pages in milliseconds. 

After days of near-isolation Kokoju finds what they’re looking for: in a tattered, ink-stained journal left by Biggs the First, she discovers a means of controlling Xande’s throne by machinery. 

*

“It isn’t an overly-complicated build, by our standards,” Biggs announces to the foremost engineers, researchers, and historians in Eight Sentinels. G’raha finds himself at their meeting by invitation; Derrik is also there, pacing along one wall because he demanded to be included. Beta sits on the large wooden table near Biggs, constantly pushing its little legs up and down as it compiles information. The room is hot, overcrowded as it is by the mass of people gathered around an enormous table in the center. 

“We’ve taken a look at the pieces required and should be able to construct it within two weeks,” says the Duskwight who’d accompanied them to the Waking Sands, an older fellow named Chalvatot. “What happens when we power it up is another matter entirely.”

“This calls for a new stage of our plan,” Biggs announces, his voice near-quivering with pride. “Accessing and controlling Xande’s throne has been at the forefront of our thoughts for centuries. I am thrilled to announce that it is extremely likely this will come about within our lifetime.” Someone whistles and Biggs actually laughs, an enormous grin spreading across his face. “We all deserve to celebrate! Two hundred years we have worked - two hundred years we have laboured! Through death and war, famine and plague, destruction and _so much_ bloody sorrow - and now we’ve done it! We have accomplished the first stage of Cid and Nero’s grand plan!”

Applause and cheers thunder through the room; even Derrik has the beginnings of a smile, though he has the look of a man waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Settle down, settle down!” Biggs’s grin widens as he waves his hands to call for attention. “We all know this was only stage one! Cid and Nero believed this the most difficult step - and look at us! _We’re_ the ones who solved it! We will go down in history as _the_ people who opened Syrcus Tower!” He suddenly turns to G’raha and gives him a low bow over the table. “I cannot thank our mage from the tower enough - without G’raha Tia’s memories and insight we would still be toiling to create our own connection. I’d have no doubt we’d have done it, but he has saved us an immeasurable amount of time and effort. For G’raha Tia, everyone!”

Heat floods G’raha’s cheeks as the leading members of the Ironworks turn to shower him with applause and gratitude. He stands, bowing low to them all. For a fleeting moment he fears they expect him to speak, but their heads quickly swivel back to their president. He takes his seat with a sigh of relief as Biggs begins to talk again.

“I’m not going to pretend our work is downhill from here.” The Roegadyn meets everyone’s eyes in turn, staring at each as if to impart how serious his next information is. “Xande’s throne is but the keystone to our plans - opening a portal to another shard is not our final goal, as we all know.” He pauses a moment, but no one moves to speak. “I will be breaking our force into two teams. Team One will continue to work on Xande’s throne - not just creating the means to power it, but to _control_ it. Remember that it is currently oriented towards the Thirteenth, and our goal takes us to the First. Chalvatot will lead this project.”

Now the researchers and engineers begin to murmur, each turning to their neighbour to mention ideas or names of prospective engineers best-suited to this task. Biggs lets them talk for a few moments before rapping his knuckles on the table. Silence gradually falls.

“Team Two will work with me,” he says, his deep voice quiet. There is a strange quality to the room, a silence held with bated breath. His gaze drops to Beta, which has stopped moving up and down. “Cid and Nero outlined an elaborate plan from this point forward. The steps needed are clear, though how we integrate each will rely on our own intuition and design.” His eyes snap to Derrik, who nods sharply. “Team Two will fly north. We will pass through Coerthas and Dravania.”

“Coerthas is locked beneath snow and ice,” one of the researchers argues. “If the weather doesn’t destroy us, the Reds certainly will!”

“We won’t fly anywhere close to Ishgard,” Biggs retorts. He crosses his arms over his chest, a determined look on his usually-grim face. “Our goal lies in the Highlands.” Confused murmurs rove across the room, but Biggs lets them die to silence before speaking. 

“Team Two will excavate Alexander.”

*

“I want to go with you,” G’raha says as the door closes behind the last engineer, leaving him alone with Biggs and Derrik. 

The two men exchange looks, but it is Biggs who speaks. “We believe you would be most helpful with Team One - your insight into Syrcus Tower’s power and inner workings would help them immensely.”

Anyone could see that - even G’raha must admit their logic is sound - but Alexander is another piece of Vahl, another stop on his journey, another part of him G’raha might be able to touch. He knows next to nothing about the colossus or how to study it but he needs to _be there,_ to witness what Vahl did and be where he stood.

“And - I’m sorry, but - do you really think this wise?” Biggs won’t look him in the eyes, focusing instead on the table between them. “If bringing you endangers your own health -”

“It has passed,” G’raha interrupts, anger stirring in his chest. That they talk about him behind his back he assumed, but for them to discuss his _health_ when he is not present is a different matter. “If you are so worried why has no one insisted I see a healer? Or do you subscribe to conjecture and gossip instead of fact?”

“We weren’t gossiping,” Derrik interjects. “I only mentioned I’m worried. Since you haven’t visited a healer of your own accord I figured your illness either passed or contained - unless you have more to tell us?”

Caught in a trap of his own making, G’raha stews in silence. All he has are suspicions, but if he voices them would they not regulate him to stay within the tower? Will he not lose all his freedom? If they consider him an invalid - someone bound body and soul to this place - he would lose any chance he has to see what remains of Vahl’s world.

“I don’t intend to confine you to Eight Sentinels,” Biggs says as the silence drags on. “Never would I think to do that. I truly believe Chalvatot needs you here at the tower or I would have your expertise at my back without hesitation.”

It’s a silly frustration, he knows this, but it renders him bitter regardless. “I am not an Ironworks employee.”

“As such you have no business with Ironworks affairs,” the Roegadyn counters. “I am making you an offer, G’raha! Help us with the tower and I’ll do what I can with the next stage of our plan.”

Derrik suddenly moves forward. The Highlander takes G'raha's shoulders in both hands and spins him so that they are facing each other square on; the ferocity in his green eyes makes G’raha flinch. “I _know_ what it’s like to search for traces of a loved one. I _know_ the thoughts in your head - the ones pushing you forward, and the others calling for reason and rationality.” He gives G’raha a little shake. “Whatever is left in Dravania will be fragments - nothing even Vahl would recognize. Standing where he once stood brings you no closer to him, but figuring out Xande’s throne _will_.”

“I -” G’raha takes a dizzy step backwards, completely overwhelmed by the emotion in the mayor’s eyes. “I mean -”

“You have the opportunity to really _see_ him,” Derrik interrupts, his voice as serious as G’raha’s ever heard it. “Stop this bloody nonsense and focus on the task at hand, because the majority of us never get that chance.” He lets go of G’raha’s shoulders, gives Biggs a terse nod, and exits the room without another word.

G’raha stares, blinking furiously at the wall across from him. He doesn’t understand what inspired the man’s outburst, but dread floods him. Somewhere, somehow, he’d said too much. 

It is Biggs who speaks first, breaking the thick silence with simple, quiet words. “Hollwyda is Derrik’s second wife. He loves her utterly, but a part of his heart will always be with Inga.” He comes around the table but stops at the door. “Reds shot down her airship over Ishgard. We’ve never been able to recover -” His voice cracks and he stops to clear his throat. “Well. She’s gone, isn’t she? If we succeed Vahl will have a second chance. Isn’t that more important than finding echoes of him here?”

G’raha can’t possibly argue, but his mind still searches for something - _anything_ \- to give him a sense of stability. Floundering through guilt, shame, and self-pity, he focuses on the one term he couldn’t understand. “Reds?”

“Red Imperials - a faction out of the Old Empire.” Biggs pauses before meeting G’raha’s gaze. “If you want to come north, you’re free to do as you please - but I _know_ you’ll make a difference here.”

G’raha stiffens as the Roegadyn opens the door, expecting him to slam it shut after he leaves - but the Ironworks’ president closes it with a gentle, quiet click. Left alone with only Beta, G’raha stumbles into the nearest chair, pulls his knees up to his chest, and buries his face in his hands.

*

The sun has set by the time G’raha finds the courage to seek out Eight Sentinels’ mayor. He follows the narrow roads past looming buildings, their windows bright with candlelight. Voices carry easily in this cramped space; children’s laughter, rumbles of conversations, someone singing something sorrowful some distance away - all of it drifts through the air, surrounding him in a way that somehow makes him feel even lonelier.

All of these people are connected in their drive to save the world; they would not be here were they not. While G’raha may acknowledge and admire that drive his heart has yet to adjust: he can barely consider _saving_ Vahl when he still struggles to come to terms with Vahl being gone. It doesn’t help that the finer points of this plan are still a mystery: who will travel through time? If the plan requires traveling to the past and then traversing the rift, how are they to take such technology with them? Biggs has alluded to having answers, but the man is frustratingly vague when it comes to answering specific questions. “Cid and Nero planned for that” is not the answer G’raha wants to hear.

G’raha discovers Derrik and Hollwyda sitting on the steps leading up to their front porch, lit from behind by lanterns beyond their open front door; they exchange looks the moment they see him. Hollwyda stands and retreats into the house without a word, leaving the two men behind. G’raha stops a few fulms away, resisting the urge to wring his hands as Derrik stares at the gravel beneath his feet. It is an awkward guilt that renders him speechless; he is unsure how to begin.

“Biggs said he told you about Inga.” Derrik’s voice is soft and unassuming, his expression forgiving. 

“He did.” He hesitates, but the apology is still too difficult to speak. He settles on a different route. “What was she like?”

“Inga?” Derrik has a hint of laughter in his voice. “Her father called her a volcano: she’d explode on you, you know, when you’d been a fool often enough. Temper like lightning and fury like fire, but damn if I didn’t enjoy the spark and heat.” His hands wipe invisible dust from his pants before he settles with his elbows on his knees, resting his chin on his knuckles. “I’m a decent enough pilot, but she _owned_ the sky - she could navigate storms I’d run from, and she outflew more than her fair share of Birdmen.”

“She sounds like someone I used to know.” He forges on, knowing that delaying any further would border on rude. “I apologize for what I said earlier - for forcing your hand, so to speak.”

The man’s shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “You didn’t know. I can’t blame you for sending my thoughts where they went - wasn’t your intention, was it?”

“No, but my intentions were selfish and foolhardy - it should not have taken your words to shock me into common sense.”

“Bah.” Derrik waves his hand as though swatting away G’raha’s words. “You’ve walked in this world for barely a week! That you’re thinking at all is nothing short of a miracle - I’d probably have turned around and locked myself back up when I saw the state of things!”

“I cannot say the temptation isn’t there,” G’raha admits. Some of his nerves and guilt have faded; Derrik’s forgiving attitude calms him immensely. “But I think the solitude would hurt far worse than the shock.”

The man’s fierce green eyes meet his. “Aye, that I understand.” He shifts on his step, patting his hand beside him. “I won’t bite, mage. Take a seat.”

A spike of nerves is quickly replaced by gratitude. G’raha joins Derrik on the low porch step, holding his staff between his knees as he takes a moment to adjust to the new perspective. It’s a nice view in front of him: a street full of other cramped buildings with small porches, a sky above showing distant stars, and again the low rumble of nearby voices. Hollwyda and Chalvatot are loudest of all, discussing the upcoming journey from the room behind them.

“I heard you talking to Kokoju about Vahl.” Derrik’s gaze stays forward, giving G’raha a touch of privacy. “It’ll be easier, eventually - not today, or tomorrow, or even weeks from now. One day you’ll find yourself telling a story about him and realize you didn’t cry, or you’ll discover you’re laughing about something stupid he did way back when without your heart aching - but he’ll never leave you. Not really.”

“I -” G’raha’s voice cracks and he pauses, swallows hard, and tries again. “I was told the graveyard is near here, but -”

“Ah, yeah.” Understanding and sympathy colour the man’s low voice. “I’m with you on that - I feel sick even thinking about setting foot in the place, but some people find it cathartic. No one’s judging you for leaving it be, mage - everything comes in its own time.”

G’raha rubs the back of his hand against his nose, awkward and embarrassed and desperate to change the conversation before he loses control completely. “How long did it take before - I mean, when did you feel comfortable - when did Hollwyda -” He stops, flustered, but Derrik catches his meaning.

“When I decided loneliness would kill me faster than guilt. Inga would’ve wanted me happy - she’d have been the first person to tell me to suck up my sorrows and get back into the world, that we have to move forward before we’re left behind, but navigating the hole she left has been a journey and a half. Hollwyda isn’t filling that hole - she’s a whole different type of temper, if you follow - but she’s damn respectful about my past. Some days I need a moment on my own - I’ll catch a familiar smell or stumble on a memory, and _whoop_! There I go, back into my ‘if-onlys’ and my ‘could-have-beens’.”

“I think every day is still in ‘could-have-been’ territory.”

Derrik pats his shoulder. “They all will be for a while yet. I’d tell you to throw yourself into whatever Chalvatot has planned and let the distraction outweigh the memories, but you decide for yourself what comes next. Sorrow moves at its own speed.”

“Thank you.” Strange, that he’d come here offering awkward apologies only to find understanding and advice - but his gratitude goes beyond words. “I suppose - I suppose having people around you would help too, wouldn’t it?”

“You’d think.” Derrik’s gaze turns distant yet again; he rubs the back of his head, shifting his mass of curls and his wool cap. “We have a daughter, you know: a red-headed lass just as fiery as her mother was. She’s not in Eight Sentinels anymore - couldn’t take the memories, she said, or the people just moving on.”

“Where is she now?”

Derrik turns to him, an odd, distant smile on his face. “With Inga’s parents. Safe, I hope. Coming to terms, at her own speed.” He jerks his head in a “what can you do” type of movement before rising off the step. “Healing looks different to everyone. What I said today wasn’t meant to make you feel guilty, but to show you the reality: just like at the Waking Sands, you are unlikely to find any kind of comfort in Dravania.”

“I know,” G’raha says quietly - and he does, truly, but that does not halt the urge to venture north. Wanderlust factors in to his desire to fly with Biggs and Derrik: the need to see new places, to explore Eorzea-as-it-is, to go beyond the confines of his blue tower. “I fear I was inspired by an adventurer in a world not kind to adventuring.”

“Sometimes you just have to follow your heart, no matter what the world wants you to do.” Derrik offers him a hand and G’raha takes it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. “We’ll get you back out there, mage - I promise you that.”

G’raha finds himself grinning back at the Hyur, immensely grateful for that small touch of optimism. A part of him seems to shift and settle, adjusting to the sudden burst of good humour - the first he’s had in a very, very long time. It is not acceptance - not yet - but he recognizes it is the first step towards the healing he desperately needs. 

Gods willing, the rest will come in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter serves as a sort of bridge, so I'll do my best to get the next chapter out quicker than I have been. Less talky-talk, more...actiony-action? In any case, thanks for reading!


	6. The Void Gazes Also

Vahl stands a few feet away, his back facing G’raha. There is a lake at the Warrior’s feet, reflecting a bright blue sky full of floating islands holding aloft whitewashed ruins; G’raha recognizes they are somewhere in La Noscea, but cannot pinpoint where. 

“You’re dead,” G’raha says, his voice extraordinarily loud in this muffled space. His feet are rooted to the ground; he cannot bend his knees or ankles. Normally this would have worried him, but it is a fact his dreaming mind accepts without concern.

“Am I?” The Warrior of Light flicks a fishing rod forward; they watch the line disappear into the brilliant blue water with a quiet _plunk_. “You’d think someone would have told me.”

He’d been like that in life, hadn’t he? More likely to joke than take the matter seriously, always looking for his next punchline; he’d had a sense of humour that often bordered on dark. G’raha knew he’d used it to keep away his inner demons, and he’d done his best to give the Hyur what laughter he could.

“I miss you.” It slips out unbidden, dropping into the silence like a boulder into a lake. His ears flatten against his head as regret curls inside him, regret mixed with anxiety and that aching loneliness. 

“Might I remind you that _you_ left _me_?” Vahl doesn’t turn around, doesn’t move an inch, and though his words are light there is darkness underneath - a touch of bitterness, a biting edge that sucks the air from G’raha’s lungs. “You didn’t even give me a warning - nothing like ‘hello lover, today I’m going to lock myself in a tower forever’.” Vahl’s voice goes high, taking on a mocking tone, and G’raha’s heart twists. “I would have appreciated even a _hint_ of what was going on in that beautiful head of yours, but I found out at the same moment as everyone else.”

“I didn’t have time,” G’raha whispers. “I had to make a choice. No one else could have done it, Vahl - it was me, or nobody!”

Vahl’s fishing line rips out of the water with a splash; he carelessly tosses his catch behind him before flinging the line back into the lake. “I _know_ that. I understood what you had to do - but don’t lie to me, G’raha Tia! There _was_ time!”

He flinches as Vahl flings another catch over his shoulder. “I had to think! I had to consider my options! If I’d gone to you -”

“I would have agreed with you!” Vahl snaps his rod forward. Sunlight glimmers off the small waves in the lake; the scene is so peaceful compared to the devastation charging through G’raha’s chest. “I would have encouraged you! I would have supported you one hundred percent because _I love you_!” Once more he reels in his catch, but he doesn’t throw out his line a fourth time. The rod drops to the ground, slack in his hand as his head droops forward. “I wanted to say goodbye, Raha. On my own terms.”

“I - I didn’t - I couldn’t - I’m _sorry_ , Vahl!” He pulls at his legs, trying desperately to move his feet, but they are locked to the earth. “I thought you’d try to stop me -” One foot suddenly springs free; G’raha’s taken completely by surprise and falls to the ground, catching himself on his hands. He pushes himself up, eager to run to Vahl, but the sight of Vahl’s pile of catches from the lake makes him freeze.

 _Hearts_. Fresh, still-beating hearts, piled on the ground like refuse, oozing into the grass and earth around Vahl’s feet. They are mere ilms away from his hands; he can _feel_ their beating vibrating through the earth.

He stares in horror as Vahl turns to him, revealing a gaping hole in his chest. G’raha cannot move, cannot stand or close his eyes - he can only lay on his belly, arms braced beneath him as Vahl slowly, almost gracefully, falls backwards into the lake.

G’raha wakes screaming.

*

“Run a wire under there, will you?” Chalvatot tosses G’raha a wrapped bundle, holding one end of the cable in his own hands. “It’ll take less wire to direct it down, rather than wind it along the stairs.”

G’raha does as asked, looping the bundle under the railing and carefully lowering it the long distance to the next swirl of blue staircase below him. An engineer catches it and connects it to a network of cables running to a variety of machines.

“That should be the last one!” the distant engineer calls, giving G’raha an exaggerated salute. “Let us know when we can power it up!”

“It’s good to go,” he calls, passing on the message to Chalvatot above him. He pushes himself up from the floor, clapping his hands together to remove some of the dust. “They’re ready whenever we are!”

“Then get your ass to the top and we’ll turn this damned thing on!”

G’raha hurries upstairs, excitement pushing him faster. In the two weeks since Biggs and Team Two had flown north he’d come to appreciate Chalvatot’s get-it-done attitude; the Elezen’s style of leadership is much more approachable than Biggs’s. 

Xande’s throne is nearly overshadowed by cables and cords, to the point where it may as well have sprouted a wig of wire hair. There are a few machines near the edges of the platform but the majority of the cables run down the staircase to the massive relay on one of the lower floors. G’raha joins Chalvatot and a Viera historian named Nalza near the center of the room; since Kokoju went north Nalza has become their primary source of information on Allagan relics. 

“Tell me one more time,” Nalza says, her palms pressed together as she rests her forefingers against her chin. Her amber eyes are distant, almost glazed behind her wireframe glasses. “What happened when you turned it on?”

“Lights,” G’raha replies. He points to each of the major pillars around the edge of the space. “One from each, until they merged to create a portal just in front of the throne.”

“And the portal immediately went to the Thirteenth?”

“I assume so. I could only see darkness on the other side.”

“Hrm.” She closes her eyes, though her twitching ears give away her agitation. “That would be fitting for the Void, but the interdimensional rift is also said to be a dark space. Alas that we have no way of knowing.”

“If I should vomit,” Chalvatot says in a cheerful voice as he moves between them, “Ignore me and continue on, will you?”

“Hrm. I suppose.”

“It will be fine,” G’raha assures them, even as nerves twist his own stomach. Half of him expects nothing to happen, while the other half is terrified demons and nightmares will spawn all around them. He’s told them half a dozen times about the Cloud of Darkness and the power it controlled, but they are convinced that such a thing could not be reborn, not after the Warrior of Light dealt with it.

He tries not to think about Vahl during the day. Thoughts that had once been lonely, sorrowful things twist into aching doubts and regrets. Every fear he pushes aside in daylight consumes him after sundown, turning his dreams into hellscapes he cannot avoid. More often than not he works himself to sleep, pouring over the books they’d recovered from the Waking Sands until his head hits his desk. Nightmares cannot penetrate complete exhaustion - or, if they do, he has no memory of them - and thus he manages to scavenge a few hours of rest.

Had Vahl forgiven him for making his choice?

Had he moved on, forgetting the Miqo’te in the tower?

Had he demanded their relationship be erased from history, regretting ever spending time with G’raha after he’d literally had a door closed in his face?

There is no one alive to ask. Beta had known Vahl for all of five minutes, and all other record-keepers seem to have glossed over that detail.

It shouldn’t matter. No one _needs_ to know; it won’t help them bring Vahl back, and it adds nothing of note to anyone else’s lives.

Except - 

If Vahl had asked - if he had taken historians and writers aside to request that his relationship with G’raha not be documented - 

If Vahl hadn’t forgiven him for leaving - 

“G’raha?” Nalza pokes his arm gently. “Come back to Eorzea, G’raha.”

He shakes his head, blinking fast to clear images of Vahl’s face from his mind. “Sorry, I - sorry.”

“I asked if you’re ready.”

He looks around. The men and women of the Ironworks stand to one side, eyeing him nervously. Near them are a dozen soldiers, accompanying them by G’raha’s request: he would not risk setting anything loose.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he says, attempting a smile even as he takes his staff in his left hand. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if something comes through, but he would rather be prepared.

“Hrm. Likewise.”

“Your lack of excitement is exhausting.” Chalvatot raises one hand to his ear, pressing a finger against his linkpearl. “No time like the present! Flick some switches and get us powered up!”

Instantly the small machines on site light up, whirring gently. Everyone’s gaze turns to the throne, glinting gold and blue in the midday sun. 

“No explosions, leaks, sparks, or other destruction?” Chalvatot pauses a moment for the response via linkpearl. “Of course it’s going to be noisy! It’s a generator, not a butterfly. Hit the button before my hair grows any greyer!” He drops his hand and looks around. “The moment we’ve been waiting for, folks! If nothing happens please do not be disappointed! Do not tell Biggs! Do not blame me!”

“Try not to panic,” Nalza adds, pushing her glasses up her nose.

“ _Panic_ ,” the Duskwight scoffs. “When have you ever seen -”

A _bang_ decimates the silence; everyone puts their hands to their ears as Chalvatot drops to the ground. It’s followed by a quickly-growing whir, the sound of power building as the cables pump more and more energy through Xande’s throne. 

“That was not panic,” Chalvatot mutters as he shakily rises to his feet. “Precautionary measures - one never knows -”

“Hrm.”

G’raha can only hold his breath as lights appear on each of the capped pillars around the throne. One by one they flicker into existence before expanding sideways to collide in a burst of brightness in front of Xande’s throne. Gasps echo around the area as the light grows, and grows, and grows, before -

“There!”

It collapses inwards. A small cloud of dark aether blooms a moment later, tendrils twisting in the air before expanding rapidly into a window-sized slit, like a giant purple and black cat’s eye.

“That’s it,” G’raha whispers. “That’s the voidgate.”

“Voidgate?” Nalza repeats, moments before a hideous shriek pierces the air.

What looks like an enormous eyeball stars at them through the dark aether. G’raha’s imagination conjures a gigas on the other side of the portal, a giant creature they cannot repel, but as the voidsent forces its way through he realizes it isn’t quite so terrifying as that. He reacts first, flinging his glove to the ground as he charges past the Viera and Elezen. He plants his staff hard against the crystal blue floor as he throws his hand up, blue palm facing the one-eyed, winged creature squeezing through the portal.

“Break!” 

The ahriman freezes as it is petrified in mid-air. Even its large, bloodshot eyeball is unable to move, staring ahead with terrifying hatred and fury.

“Close it,” G’raha gasps, his arm shaking with the effort of holding so much power steady. “Close the damn thing!”

“Off, turn it off!” Chalvatot cries behind him through his linkpearl. “You did great - now power it down!”

The whirring noise dies almost instantly; the voidgate compresses in on itself before vanishing completely - leaving the petrified voidsent behind.

“Somebody kill it!”

A flurry of gunshots ring out across the top of the tower from the soldiers behind them; the ahriman quickly dissolves into dark aether.

“Well,” Chalvatot says into the silence, his voice shaking. “I think I'll call that a success!”

*

Nalza drops a book on the table in front of G’raha, sliding onto the bench across from him. He looks from her, to the heavy book, to the bowl of stew in front of him, and decides to keep shoveling food into his mouth. One of her long, purple-tinted nails taps the leather cover. 

“Not once do they refer to the portal as a _voidgate_ ,” she says, leaning forward. “It is always a portal or a gateway. Why did you call it that?”

“If ‘all ih af’,” he replies around a mouthful of popoto and onion. He swallows and tries again. “Cid called it that - a voidgate, a portal to the Void.”

“Because it can only go to the Void?”

He frowns. He’d claimed a seat in the large mess hall reserved for members of the Ironworks; with half their number away there is more than enough room for him to join. He’d hoped he wouldn’t be bothered, but if Kokoju is persistent then the Viera is downright obstinate. “I don’t believe so. We knew that was where Xande had aimed it, so we had no reason to believe it would go anywhere else. At the time I’m not sure we even knew about the other shards.”

“Why would he never have referred to it as a voidgate in his own writing?” 

“Perhaps he edited it out once he learned about the shards,” G’raha guesses with a shrug. “Perhaps he decided that voidgate isn’t a suitable word. Why does it matter?”

“Hrm.” She flips the book open, rifling through the pages until it lands on the one she needs. Her dark nail taps on an old, faded painting on the page, barely more than a dark splotch with a red face. “These creatures could summon voidgates as well.”

G’raha feels a chill as he looks down at the faded depiction of an Ascian. He knows very little about Zodiark’s disciples; Vahl had always wanted to avoid the topic. “True.”

“Does that not mean we could use one of them to open a portal? Instead of relying on Xande’s throne - could we not attempt to lure one of these creatures and trick it?”

He starts shaking his head before she finishes speaking. “No. Never. They aren’t mindless creatures, or thralls like Garuda’s Birdmen - they’re living, breathing men. There is no trick up our sleeves clever enough to fool them.”

She sits back, clearly disappointed. “I hoped for an easier way.”

“Dealing with Ascians means dealing with death. Forget about them, and hope they’ve forgotten about us.”

“Hrm.”

Hollwyda slides into the seat next to the Viera, closing Nalza’s book as she does. The historian shoots her an irritated look but the Roegadyn’s eyes are on G’raha. “Word from up north, cat.”

He pushes his bowl away and leans forward, tail twitching back and forth with nerves and excitement. “When? How? What news?”

“Derrik flew close enough for our linkpearls to be in range just this morning,” she replies, her eyes bright and voice low. She hunches close to the table, obviously not wanting the entire mess hall to know. “They found it - what they’re looking for - and they’ve made a camp. Seems the land is warmer to the northwest, so they aren’t even bogged down in snow like the rest of us.”

“A mercy,” G’raha says.

“Unfair,” Nalza mutters.

“He expects they’ll be there another few weeks, as the party’s divided itself in half again. Biggs and the main crew are staying in the river basin, but Derrik’s been leading a group of historians further along the coast.” Hollwyda’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “Seems that husband of mine’s been playing at archaeology!”

Nalza’s sour mood disappears in an instant. She spins towards the Roegadyn, her long fingers gripping Hollwyda’s muscled forearm. “Don’t tell me - oh, it isn’t fair, did they really -”

“ _Idyllshire_ ,” Hollwyda breathes. “Buried beneath half a mountain, it sounds like, but they’re beginning to excavate. They hope for more records or resources, but I know Derrik has his mind set on an outpost.” Her eyes take on a faraway, dreamy look. “Imagine - living in Dravania!”

“Imagine,” G’raha repeats, some of his energy draining as he does. If his hypothesis concerning his hand is true, he doubts he would make it that far.

“That’s _my_ big news for the day - how did it go with the portal?” 

G’raha and Nalza’s eyes meet; he dives back into his stew just as she grabs her book and flees the mess hall. Neither of them want to be the one to tell their Captain of the Guard that they’d almost set a voidsent loose in her jurisdiction.

“That well, eh?” Hollwyda sits back on her bench, her forehead creased by a frown. “You know, I think I prefer ignorance.”

G’raha can’t help but agree.


	7. The Ghost of You

Progress slows considerably. Though they can consistently open the portal at will, redirecting it to a different shard is beyond any of them. There is no steering wheel, no dial, no variety of options to choose from: their control of the throne is limited to on or off. The researchers spend their days combing through Syrcus Tower in the hopes that an answer will reveal itself, while G’raha takes it upon himself to pester Nalza for a much-needed history lesson. 

“So the First fell to Light,” he repeats, idly watching her inspect a large section of the wall in the main stairwell. “And somehow the effects of that, paired with Black Rose, triggered our latest Calamity. How do we even know there’s a First?”

“Hrm. Ascians, and Urianger’s work with the Warriors of Darkness. The Word of the Mother confirmed it, remember?”

“Ah, yes.” She’d given him that text to occupy him the week before. “And the Ascians are tied to the Calamities.”

“They call them Rejoinings,” she says darkly. “They view them as good things, but they would, wouldn’t they? Not exactly pleasant.”

G’raha crouches, resting his arms on his knees as he watches her. Much of this still feels like conjecture, but he can’t argue that these ideas do fall neatly into place. They’re rather too convenient to not be by design, though why the Ascians would wish such destruction is beyond him. 

“Why not return in time to our own world and stop the production of Black Rose?”

“They tried that,” she murmurs, taking a step back from the wall to tilt her head to one side. “The Black Wolf worked for months, but there was always one more production facility, one more crate of poison, one more delivery he couldn’t reach. Cid theorized the flood of Light magnified the potency of Black Rose, though why it would do so I’m unaware. Besides, even stopping the production of Black Rose would not save the First.”

“Ah. So we reduce the potency to reduce the damage, and save a world at the same time.”

“Hrm. In theory.” She spreads one hand against the wall, her fingers twitching by ilms. “It should be - _here_ -“

G’raha’s tail snaps restlessly as a portion of the wall slides back, rippling into itself until it settles into grand double doors. He stands to move beside Nalza, both staring in awe at the intricate golden carvings. 

“Two hundred years,” he mutters. “Why didn’t I find this?”

“Were you looking?” She moves forward but halts with her hand over the handle. “You should go first.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Should I?”

“Hrm.”

Since that’s the only answer she gives, he can only humour her. He steps in front of her, eyeing the golden handle with a touch of unease, before he takes it in hand and pushes open the door. 

A completely round room awaits them on the other side. The floor consists of an elaborate design, circle upon circle upon circle, and the far side of the room is raised on a dias. The wall above the dias has panels of blue crystal; the middle one looks clearer than the others. 

G’raha takes a few hesitant steps into the room. Like much of the tower it lights itself automatically, revealing a layer of dust on the floor and walls. 

“Here,” Nalza says. 

He turns to find her standing in front of a smaller set of doors to his right. They stand slightly ajar, though the room on the other side is lit. 

“What’s in there?” He can’t help a touch of foreboding - it almost feels as though they are trespassing. 

“If I understand the runes, a kind of control center.” She looks at him over the rims of her glasses, her amber eyes catching his. “This is your room, mage from the tower.”

He balks at that, feeling both underprepared and unworthy - but who else is there? Did he not set himself upon this path because he is the only one capable? A sudden compulsion moves him to remove his glove; he can see Nalza watching him, waiting, but he stands still a few moments longer. 

He’d borrowed the tower’s power often enough of late. Why not delve deeper?

Vahl would’ve done it already. 

He puts his palm to the wooden doors, throwing them wide. Another circular room, though smaller than the one before, and the construction is odd: the lower half of the walls are steps leading up to various blue-glowing nodes set in strange gold columns. As curious as the nodes are, his attention is immediately drawn to an enormous blue object directly across from the door. It looks like a sphere set in gold, but something about it - 

Something about it _sings_ to him. 

He doesn’t hesitate. Holding his breath, he is across the room in a heartbeat, blue hand held up to the strange sphere. He hears Nalza’s sharp inhale just before he places his hand on the object, and then - 

Memories, flashes, glimpses of knowledge speed through his mind’s eye. He cannot be sure if he cries out, but he maintains his hold on the sphere, closing his eyes as an impossible wealth of information floods his senses. It’s too much to make sense of - a deluge when he is only prepared for a trickle. The back of his hand begins to burn hotter and hotter as tears come to his eyes.

“G’raha!” 

The connection breaks as suddenly as it started; warm arms pull him away, dragging him to the ground. He opens his eyes as he hits the floor, partially-cushioned by Nalza. She scurries out from under him to kneel at his side, her worried hands fluttering over him.

“Your hand, G’raha, your _hand_!”

He doesn’t want to look. Gritting his teeth against the pain shooting all the way up to his elbow, he finally lowers his eyes.

Gold now weaves its way among the crystal, encircling his middle finger and beginning its spread towards his thumb and wrist. Holding his left hand above it establishes that it _is_ hot, like a sword fresh from the forge. He cradles it against his chest, blinking back tears as the pain lessens to a dull throb.

“I’m so sorry,” Nalza whispers. He jerks his chin to look at her; her face is pale as snow. “I wouldn’t have suggested - I didn’t know - are you alright?”

He closes his eyes. Other than the pain in his arm the sphere had not damaged him; it’s purpose was not to latch on to him, but - 

“It’s a console,” he says, his voice gruff. He clears his throat and attempts to explain. “The control center, as you said. It - it recognized me. Recognized my blood, I believe.” Understanding dawns slowly, as pieces of information shift and slide into a pattern he can understand. “Though I’ve used the tower’s power before, it was like to borrowing - tapping into its basic functions, like a novice using a single tool for an intricate craft. Now -”

“Now?” Nalza encourages him when he pauses.

He looks from her to the sphere. Something shifts within him - a sense of responsibility far greater than he’s ever known. “Now I know I have much more to learn. What I thought I understood is but the beginning - imagine what I could do! Imagine how I can help…” His voice trails off as emotions swell in his chest. 

Now he will truly be the caretaker of Syrcus Tower.

*

G’raha spends the evening moving his belongings from his third-floor room to the circular room with the blue sphere. Nalza doesn’t approve - she thinks him overly-fascinated by it - but as caretaker he believes it only right that the control center be his. Shelves, chairs, and books fill the small space; it’s cluttered and none of the design styles match, but he likes it nonetheless.

The last item he places on the shelves is the painting Kokoju had discovered in the Waking Sands, now framed in wood and glass.

“Look at this!” he says, spreading his arms wide and speaking as though Vahl could listen through the painting. “A space all my own! I’ll have to ask someone to drag a desk up for me, but from here I’ll learn so much.” He lowers his arms, staring at the walls. “From here I’ll help save you.”

Help, yes, but touch? See? Hold? He hasn’t found the courage to ask, but there is a hole in this plan they all seem to skirt past, a flaw that at once seems gargantuan and yet - 

If their goal is to save the world, what do their own lives matter?

They are not _all_ returning to the past, and Vahl is certainly not coming to their future. Once the First is saved, and the Calamity averted, Vahl will be returned to his own shard in his rightful timeline: the one where G’raha remains locked in slumber, awaiting a new civilization to wake him. Whether this blasted future will cease to exist, or will be cut off from reality - a distant, drifting nightmare they are forever trapped within - is beyond anyone’s ken.

“I’m not going to meet you again, am I?” G’raha’s voice is very quiet as he stares at the painting, at the quick lines that resemble the Warrior of Light. “All this work, and you’ll never know it was me at the end of time. It was me, putting you back together.” His heart twists as his loneliness rises to drown him; he cannot help reaching out his crystal hand to touch the glass over Vahl’s face. “I hope you forgave me. I hope you understood. I hope you didn’t miss -” His voice cracks and he looks away, dropping his hand to his side.

Vahl would have missed him. He cannot fool himself. 

“I wish I could tell you I’m sorry,” he says, swallowing his tears. “Maybe I’ll send a note with whoever goes back - or maybe not.” To be so close, yet so far? It would only hurt Vahl to know he’d lost G’raha again. Better he remain oblivious. Better the sorrow stay with G’raha in this doomed future, that Vahl and the people with him survive to see an age free from this magnitude of suffering.

Better they forget him. 

“Good night, Vahl. We’ll be there soon - I promise.”


	8. Cry Foul

Silence stretches across Mor Dhona and Eight Sentinels like fog. The land is dark, lit only by a sliver of moon, and most of the fires in Eight Sentinels have been banked or smothered. The air is bitterly cold, nipping at bare skin relentlessly, and the northern wind does not help.

G’raha stands on the north wall with Hollwyda, Chalvatot, and a platoon of soldiers. All are tense, fingering their weapons as nerves and anxiety drive them to move and fidget. Hollwyda alone is still, standing with her feet planted on the battlement and her bare arms crossed over her armoured chest. Her face is a mask of stone; only her furious eyes show life.

“There.” 

It is a few moments before G’raha sees it too: three distant dark shapes over the horizon, two occasionally flaring bright. He looks to Hollwyda, but she only clenches her jaw as she glares death at the incoming airships.

Derrik’s airship is in front, tailed closely by the Ixal. He’d sent a warning through linkpearl earlier that evening but there is nowhere else for him to go, no possible way to shake them off, no counterattack he can make when his odds are two against one. He can only try to stay out of range of their cannons, fleeing south as fast as he possibly can.

“G’raha.” Hollwyda’s voice is a bark; she never takes her eyes off the horizon. “Do what you have to do. W'muhj and W'cheruh - follow him. Keep him safe.”

G’raha gives her a small salute and turns on his heel. The town is deserted, eerily quiet with everyone barred indoors, and his pounding feet are alarmingly loud. The two Miqo’te machinists follow behind him, keeping pace as he hurries to the steps leading up to Syrcus Tower. 

He doesn’t know this will work. He’d warned them this is something new, warned them he’s only had a chance to experiment with the tech he’d uncovered - but there is no time to test it.

“A moment.” He pauses on the steps to Syrcus Tower, taking a small gold Allagan cube from his pocket. He’s conducted small tests with these cubes since finding records of them in the blue sphere, and has learned just enough about these strange blocks to manipulate them using Syrcus Tower. Holding it on his palm, it is simple enough to summon the tower’s aether, to weave it through and around the cube, to bend it to his will and set the spell in place. “Protect.”

Light erupts from the little cube, shooting skyward like a lance. It climbs higher and higher until it bursts like a firework, spreading outwards in a dome. Like a curtain closing on a stage, a transparent shield envelopes the town.

G’raha takes a step back. The cube remains in the air, slowly spinning in space. He glances at the machinists. “Guard this,” he says, pointing to the little cube. “With your life.”

“Aye, sir.” One of the machinists moves next to it, taking up his position. The other nods to G’raha, implying he will follow.

There is no time to watch the little cube, to reflect on his success. While the town is now safe, Derrik remains in danger.

“Take my hand,” he says, holding out his left. The machinist - W'cheruh - hesitates only a moment before grabbing it with his heavy glove. “And don’t panic.”

“Don’t -”

The machinist’s voice cuts off as white light surrounds them, so suddenly he doesn’t even have time to gasp. The weather hits them before the white light fades; the wind tears at G’raha’s cheeks and hands the moment his teleportation spell ends.

“- panic?” finishes the Miqo’te, staggering back a step. He looks around with wild eyes, his dark skin pale. “Oh, shit.”

“Indeed.” He and W'cheruh are outside of the shield, standing on a high cliff to the north of Eight Sentinels. G’raha had spotted this space earlier from his view atop Syrcus Tower. “The Crystal Tower is too high to aim properly, but I am unsure if my magic can pass my own shield. Hence our need to be outside Eight Sentinels.” He glances over his shoulder. “You’re safe with me.”

“ _Safe_ ,” the raven-haired Miqo’te repeats, shaking his head in disbelief. “You just teleported us! Without an aetheryte!”

“If we live through this I’ll explain how.”

W’cheruh starts to curse, but cuts himself off to join G’raha at the edge of the cliff. “If we live through this, you owe me a drink.”

“Deal.” He watches the distant bursts of flame from the Ixal’s airships and pushes his anxiety down deep, as far as he possibly can. “Before anything else I have always been a scholar. If a merit-worthy idea presents itself it is only right we test it.”

“What kind of test?” There is doubt in the machinist’s voice; he isn’t quite sure if G’raha is speaking sense or riddles.

“In this instance, trial by fire.” They can hear them now, echoing explosions growing louder by the moment. Raising his voice, he adds, “Should I miss, we may become their next target. I would recommend staying close.” 

“Not much of a choice,” the Miqo’te replies, his eyes on the approaching airships. He unholsters his gun and checks the chamber, clearly not pleased with what he finds inside. “I’m going to hope to hell you don’t miss.”

He won’t.

He _can’t_.

G’raha bends his knees slightly, raising his staff in front of him in his crystal hand. It seems as though the airships take hours to move into range, when truthfully it is bare minutes. Derrik’s airship comes first, powering forward as fast as it can, but G’raha waits - and waits - and - 

His heartbeat fills his ears as he swirls his staff and left hand, waving them over his head as he draws on Syrcus Tower’s power. The weight of it - the strength of millenia of stored aether - bends him, pushes him backwards, but he finds his balance and keeps his feet. His staff glows purple, flashing white with every inhale, but he looks past it - across cliffs and snow and the land that used to be Saint Coinach’s Find, to the two airships directly in his sights.

Smiling his small, knowing smile, he bends his knees even further and channels the aether _out_.

“Foul!”

His left hand snaps back an instant before a dark crystal of power materializes between the two airships. He hears W’cheruh gasp as the air _explodes_ , shattering outwards in a giant ball of dark power. Purple and pink aether illuminate all of Mor Dhona - but the center of that explosion is so, so dark. Black swirling aether combusts at the epicenter of the spell, tearing away at everything it touches.

He watches the Ixal’s airships fall, watches the flaming balls of wreckage hurtle down into the blanketed lands of Mor Dhona. One impacts before the other, two dull thuds followed by bursts of flame and smoke.

“The fuel cells ignited,” W’cheruh murmurs beside him. The machinist’s voice is loud in the muffled silence. “It’ll be quick, at least.”

G’raha turns away. He doesn’t want to watch, though he knows he’ll replay this moment when he tries to sleep. For now his mind is on more important things: Derrik, Biggs, and the rest of the Ironworks’ Team Two.

“Come on,” he says, offering the other Miqo’te his hand once more. “Let us dispel that shield and join the welcoming committee.”

*

A massive crowd gathers around the airship; everyone in Eight Sentinels has come to see their heroes disembark. Torch lights brighten the landing area on all sides, keeping away the midnight darkness as jubilation and relief inspires the crowd to cheer. Derrik comes first, swooped into the waiting arms of Hollwyda - who proceeds to dip him backwards into a low kiss, earning them both a round of laughter and whistles - and Kokoju follows, quickly pulled into a smothering hug by her own wife, but it is Biggs who earns the crowd’s loudest cheers. His arms are full of gears and bolts, and the grin on his face rivals the joy he’d had before announcing their trip north. 

Reunions among travelers and family are teary, joyful things; G’raha’s heart catches as jealousy roots within him. What he wouldn’t give to see Vahl disembark - to run into his waiting arms, like he had after Syrcus Tower and their journey to the Thirteenth. What he wouldn’t give to be that happy, one more time. He turns away, intending to return to his tower, but W’cheruh catches his eye.

“Time for that drink?”

A moment’s hesitation before he shrugs his shoulders. What is the harm? What would he do in the tower but lie in bed, regretting the life that led him here? “Lead the way.”

The pub W’cheruh takes him to doubles as an inn; it is the largest indoor space in Eight Sentinels aside from the mess hall. Though they are among the first to arrive, the pub quickly fills with exuberant revelers. The noise grows suddenly, from a few happy voices to deafening cheers and laughter, and G’raha is more than content to watch from his corner.

“Here.” W’cheruh slides a mug across their small table; G’raha catches it easily. “You look like you could use a few.”

“I feel like I look,” he murmurs, staring at the amber liquid for a few moments before tipping it back. How long has it been since he had a drink? Sometime before their journey to the Thirteenth, surely - a tavern somewhere in Gridania? A restaurant in Limsa? He cannot recall, but perhaps that is for the best.

W’cheruh leans forward, a half-grin twisting his mouth. “So - you said you’d tell me how you did it. Few of us can teleport to aetherytes, let alone anywhere we wish.”

“Ah, yes.” He holds out his blue hand, watching the other Miqo’te’s eyes settle on his crystal palm. “Near Syrcus Tower I have certain, hmm - _gifts_ , I suppose. I am able to harness its energy to move myself without needing an aetheryte, though the range isn’t very far.” He can’t help his embarrassed smile. “I’ve mostly been using this to teleport to the top of the tower.”

“No one would blame you, I’m sure.” The Miqo’te places his mug on the table, but pauses with his hand in the air. “Could I?”

G’raha does a double-take before understanding dawns. “Oh! Yes - of course.” He holds his hand out, palm up, and watches as W’cheruh takes it. The machinist is gentle as he inspects G’raha’s crystal hand, tilting it this way and that to follow the bands of gold encircling his middle finger and thumb.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.” 

W’cheruh’s dark eyes suddenly meet his. G’raha realizes how close they are - how close _he_ is - and with his hand held like so it is impossible to look at anything else - but - 

“G’raha!”

W’cheruh drops his hand instantly, turning in his seat to cross his legs at the knee. G’raha watches him, looking for a hint - a clue - any sign he might give, but the Miqo’te’s eyes follow Derrik as the Hyur approaches the table.

“They tell me it was you making fireworks behind us!” Derrik doesn’t let G’raha sit; he scoops him into a bear of a hug, a move G’raha is both grateful for and embarrassed by. “You’ve learned new tricks!”

“I try to always have something up my sleeve,” he replies breathlessly, staggering back into his seat as Derrik releases him. He catches W’cheruh’s raised eyebrow and blinks, feeling a flush begin to creep up his cheeks. He can’t be sure what’s happening - what the other Miqo’te is playing at - but it’s flustering him. He takes a deep breath, centers his attention on the mayor, and tries again. “Welcome back!”

“Good to be back! Good to be alive!” Derrik pulls a chair over from another table and flips it around, straddling it backwards as he rests his arms on the back of it. His dark curls have grown, bouncing around his shoulders, but he still wears his heavy wool cap. “Dravania’s a beautiful place, but there’s nothing quite like home.” G’raha ignores the flash of longing - where is home, come to think of it? - and nods his agreement.

“I expect you’ll be wanting information about the trip,” Derrik continues. “Not much I can tell you about the colossus, of course - Biggs is the one to go to for that - but Idyllshire was a right eye-opener.”

“Is it recoverable?”

“It would take us years,” he says regretfully. “I want to, but we don’t have the resources. Maybe - one day - when this whole time travel business is resolved -”

W’cheruh leans forward, curiosity winning him over. “You believe it, sir? That Alexander is the key to going backwards through time?”

“I do. Not that I could explain how any of those gears fit together, but Biggs is confident he can get everything working.” Derrik shoots G’raha a meaningful glance. “We’ll speak to you about it in the morning, I expect. Biggs has a barrel to drink through and I’ve got a wife to entertain.” He suddenly sits up straight. “Speaking of -”

Hollwyda descends upon him, grabbing him by one arm and dragging him out of the chair and towards the door. Derrik shoots them both a wave, a ridiculous grin on his face as his wife escorts him out.

“Lucky man,” W’cheruh comments as his gaze slides to G’raha. “Tonight is a good night to have someone to warm up with, don’t you think?”

Is he being...propositioned? At the end of the world? _Him_? He realizes the silence between them has begun to stretch and looks away, biting his lip.

It’s not that he isn’t flattered, but - 

“You’re thinking about someone,” W’cheruh says softly. G’raha glances at him, catching his narrowed eyes and tilted head, before staring down at his drink. “Who is he?”

“Dead,” he whispers. His hands wrap around his mug as though it is a lifeline, a buoy keeping him afloat in turbulent waters. “A memory.”

“He’d want you to be happy, wouldn’t he?”

“I am happy.”

“Say that any stiffer and you’ll sound like Biggs’s little robot.” The Miqo’te snorts and drops his mug on the table. He doesn’t look angry or annoyed, simply resigned. “You ever need someone to help you work on telling tales, you know where to find me. Thanks for the drink, by the way.” He tips his head at G’raha and stands; G’raha watches him wind his way through the crowd. 

A small voice at the back of his mind tells him to run after him - to follow, to apologize, to take what is offered and leap into temptation - but he pushes that voice down, as far and as deep as it can possibly go. He tells himself it’s the loneliness spurring him to rashness: that he would regret any momentary diversion, that he has _never_ been one to fool around without feelings involved - 

But he cannot help admitting W’cheruh is right.

G’raha _is_ a bad liar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been reading along so far - I really appreciate every kudos and comment!


	9. What Lies Below

“By the twelve, it’s good to see you!”

Biggs isn’t the hugging type; instead he squeezes G’raha’s hand within both of his own. The Roegadyn is thinner, leaner, but the energy in his eyes is infectious. The engineers who follow at his heels are bubbly to the point of giddiness, eager to put everything they’ve learned to work. The base of the tower’s staircase hasn’t felt so full since that first day, when he watched them trek up pieces and parts to Xande’s throne. At the time he hadn’t been sure how he felt about the Ironworks and their plan - shock and depression had weighed down any hope he had.

Now, however, he is just as excited as they are.

“Greetings, G’raha.”

He squats, lowering himself to the tiny metal robot at Biggs’s feet. “Good to see you in one piece!”

“I am constructed of many intricate pieces, G’raha.”

“And I’m happy to see them all connected!” He resists the urge to pat the little body - a robot is not a cat; he doubts Beta will register the contact as a sign of affection - and stands, smiling at Biggs and the crew behind him. “I asked that you gather here this morning because I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” Biggs repeats, his eyebrows traveling up his forehead.

“Indeed.” He gestures to the enormous Allagan cube floating near the base of the staircase. It turns slowly, rolling in mid-air, and he watches the engineers’ eyes light up. It had been dormant when they left, sitting idly by the staircase like any old clutter, but G’raha’s experiments with the smaller cubes had forced him to look twice at this relic - and the many others dotted along various floors. “I’ve been experimenting while you were gone.”

“We gathered,” Biggs said dryly. “Never seen a healer do _that_ to the night sky.”

G’raha keeps his smile in place, but the memories rattle him. He focuses on the Allagan cube and pats it with his crystal hand. “Some of the happier discoveries I’ve made have been mechanical constructions that I’ve taken to referring to as Allagan cubes. The small ones enable me to utilize the tower’s power from a distance, or to imbue some of my will within the cube itself. This big one here…” He pats it again and it flares gently, a light aqua glow radiating from blue circles on every side. “This happens to be a teleportation cube.” Rather than explain, he reaches for it, directing his consciousness towards another cube at the top of the back-and-forth section of the staircase. He hears the engineers gasp as a white glow surrounds him; in less than a heartbeat he stands at the top of the first section of stairs. He leans over the railing with a laugh, waving down at the small crowd below him.

“You waited until now?!” Chalvatot cries up to him, clearly torn between indignation and laughter. “You made us walk up and down this bloody thing!”

G’raha touches the cube again, returning to the first floor in an instant. “I only worked out the kinks last night,” he says as an apology. He does not mention why: they don’t need to know how badly he needed _some_ kind of distraction to keep the image of those burning airships - and W’cheruh’s proposition - out of his head. 

“I had to wake early just for the commute,” Chalvatot moans, slouching forward dramatically. 

Biggs turns, angling himself to the crowd of engineers. “Let it be known Chalvatot has made a formal complaint,” he says, raising his voice. “Next time I shall elect for _him_ to lead the outbound team, so that my greatest worry need only be _stairs_.”

“Oh.” The Elezen gives him a sheepish grin. “There _was_ that day with the ahriman…”

Biggs rolls his eyes and turns back to G’raha. “Show us how it works. We’re heading right to the top.”

Though it is not a quick process to teach every engineer how to use the teleportation cubes, it is _much_ faster than climbing the entire thing. G’raha teleports last, walking into a crowd of frantically-working people who seem to be - 

“Biggs, are you taking everything apart?”

“Not everything,” the Roegadyn says, elbow-deep in one of the generators. “Based on Chalvatot’s work it seems some of what we believed was conjecture. Xande’s throne is not the key to opening the portal - the _tower_ is. Xande, being the type of person he was, tied it to his own throne. We just have to _untie_ it.”

“Ah.” He stares up at the enormous throne as he attempts to reconcile the strange regret choking him. The fear that they will take the generators elsewhere is irrational, but he cannot help but admit that he has grown attached to the top of Syrcus Tower. Both nostalgia and familiarity blend into a strange kind of comfort - he is not eager to leave this place behind, to move beyond where he worked with both NOAH and the Ironworks. “Where will you relocate to?”

“We were hoping you’d have an answer,” Biggs admits, pulling his hands out of the generator. Cords and cables wrap around his fingers and wrists, but he acts as though this is commonplace. “We need a large space - enormous, really - to build something. I would prefer it be within the tower, as Eight Sentinels is lacking in open land, and tying anything to the tower is of course easier if it’s within it.”

“Nothing comes to mind, but I can check this morning.”

“Good.” The president is already back to tinkering with the machine. “Take Beta with you - he has some information you might be interested in.”

*

G’raha slips inside his circular room, leading Beta through it to the smaller set of doors on the right. The mech immediately scurries to the blue sphere, its periscope swiveling back and forth as it inspects the Allagan creation.

“Substance matches anomaly found in G’raha’s skin,” it states, its little legs pushing its body up and down. “Substance matches material used in construction of Syrcus Tower.”

“I’m aware, Beta.” He steps over the creature to place his hand atop the sphere. It isn’t that he wants to be rude, but considering the implications regarding his crystal hand always renders him somewhat queasy. “A moment of silence, please.”

Navigating the endless sea of information stored within the sphere is still a daunting task. G’raha has attempted it before, sorting through foreign datalogs and oddly-classified systems to sate his own curiosity, but he is a mole before a mountain. Perhaps if he were an engineer, or someone trained in tech more complicated than a pistol - 

“Beta,” he says suddenly, dropping his hand to his side. “Are you able to access the data stored within?”

The mech scuttles up the wall, giving G’raha an anxious shiver at how closely the little creation resembles a bug. One mechanical leg reaches out to touch the sphere; Beta’s long, yellow eye brightens to pure white before shifting to the same blue tone as the tower.

“Interfacing,” it states. “Accessing. Please wait.” In the space of G’raha inhaling, Beta speaks again, “Access granted. Please provide further instruction.”

“Okay - okay, wait.” G’raha crosses his arms, staring down at the little mech. “If you can access this, are you able to - hmm. I don’t believe ‘translate’ is the word I want, but I have little else to call it. Are you able to parse and process the information within to enable myself to easily access it?”

“Partially,” Beta replies, its light still a blinding neon blue. “Without a manual interface I am unable to store such large quantities of information.”

“Ah, my apologies - I meant would you be able to reconfigure the system to a more…”

“User-friendly interface?” 

G’raha blinks. “I suppose?” He tilts his head to one side. “How are you able to navigate Allagan technology so quickly? Were you not discovered after the fall of the empire?”

“I far surpass Allagan technology,” Beta explains, its blue light pulsing white every few seconds. “I am able to reconfigure this user terminal. Estimated time until completion: five days, sixteen hours, five minutes from the end of this sentence.”

“Oh.” He supposes being flabbergasted by a mechanical bug should not be quite so humiliating; he cannot be the only person to have floundered in the wake of Beta. “Before you begin, could you search something specifically for me? Schematics for the tower?”

“Searching - searching - found. Blueprints of all floors above and below ground.”

“Excellent. Please copy them so they can be transferred to a datapad.” He turns to leave, intending to explain to Biggs that Beta has completely taken over the research into Syrcus Tower - and feeling more than a little put-out about being delegated to the sidelines - when the implication settles in and he spins back to the mechanical bug.

“What do you mean, ‘below ground’?”

*

“By the fucking twelve.”

G’raha mentally echoes Chalvatot’s sentiments, staring wide-eyed at the cavernous space below Syrcus Tower’s zigzagging staircase. It drops for what seems like malms, an enormous circular area darker than the Void itself. 

“What do the schematics say this space was intended to be?”

“Repurposement,” G’raha replies faintly, unable to take his eyes off that immense black space. It is both confusing and unsettling; realizing this cavern has been here all along sends shivers up and down his spine. “Whatever that means. Is it big enough for your purposes?” 

Biggs actually laughs, leaning hard on the railing overlooking that massive emptiness. “G’raha, this is enough room to build _many_ of what I want! Yes, this is perfect!”

“I don’t suppose you can teleport us down?” Chalvatot asks hopefully from Gr'aha's other side. 

“Not until I activate more of those cubes,” G’raha replies. He has never been afraid of the dark, but something about that massive black void unsettles him. He is not eager to go any deeper, but he cannot let others take the risk for him. This is _his_ tower, after all. “Will we venture down today?”

“If we can find enough light!” Biggs quickly turns around, gesturing to one of the other engineers who’d followed them. “Find us Kokoju and Nalza - I want them here for this.” He turns to another. “Lanterns for everyone - let’s say a dozen, just in case. I assume Derrik will want to know what his town’s built over, too.”

Realizing that Biggs intends to make this an expedition, G’raha retreats to the foyer in front of the staircase. Some of his unease dissipates the moment that darkness is behind him, but knowing that he will have to explore that space - that _cave_ underneath his beautiful tower - sends shivers down his spine. He takes a seat near the bottom of the staircase, resting his forearms on his knees as he stares at his dangling hands.

He can’t remember when he stopped wearing his glove. At some point it stopped mattering: everyone who might judge had already seen it. Keeping his hand hidden after the world already knows implies he’s hiding it for _other_ reasons, and he is still not prepared to explain why he hates seeing it.

The blue has begun to pass over his wrist. It does not hinder his movement, but it worries him nonetheless. 

How long does he have before it moves up his arm? Across his chest? Will it permeate his body, encrusting his lungs and heart?

What will happen when it reaches his brain?

A high voice clears its throat near him, startling him out of thought. Kokoju stands nearby, an old book in her hands and a look on her face quite similar to the one she’d worn in the Waking Sands - 

Right before she’d handed him the painting.

“Hello,” he says, fighting the urge to run away. This does not bode well.

“I thought you should read this,” she says, handing the book to him. “We unearthed it in Idyllshire.”

He takes it gingerly, understanding that one harsh movement would destroy the delicate leather cover. She has bookmarked a page with a piece of fabric, allowing him to open it easily.

“This is - this is a journal?” 

“Written by a historian - someone who lived before the Calamity.” Her voice lowers. “Someone who knew the Warrior of Light.”

G’raha’s heart freezes. He shouldn’t want to read any further - but he _does_ , oh, does he ever. With shaking hands he raises the book, following along with the looping script.

_The Warrior visited me again. I presumed - perhaps hastily - that he wished to reconsider his decision to withhold all information concerning the Dragonsong War, but it appears he continues to refuse to impart that tale to anyone save the Count of House Fortemps. A shame, of course, but I shall take what I am given - exclusive rights to the retelling and publishing of his journey through the Crystal Tower are nothing to scoff at!_

_He requested an overall minor change, yet as a teller of history I must admit it did not sit well with me. One never wishes to erase the truth, no matter how difficult it is to hear, but the Warrior provided a compelling argument: one that swayed my opinion, in this case, enough for me to omit a single aspect of his journey._

_Reader, you must know by now that I am a romantic. For our Warrior of Light to have found and lost love in such a way tears at my heart - as I know it would tear at the hearts of my beloved readers - but I must needs respect the wishes of he who lived this tale. He believes a retelling of his escapades with the young G’raha Tia would complicate said Miqo’te’s future life; he fears our future generations will think of the man as a Lover, rather than a Hero in his own right, and would not have our children’s children think the man anything less than what he deserves._

_My heart was much moved by his words and the intention behind them. While it grieves me to remove the passages dedicated to their romance, I will abide by the Warrior of Light’s wishes._

_I belatedly realized such an omission may catch the attention of the future G’raha Tia - will the noted scholar not wish to pour over annals of his lover’s life? - but alas our Warrior has journeyed to the Far East. I must endeavor to bring this to his attention when he returns to Dravania, but for the time being I shall proceed as he directed me._

G’raha wipes tears from his cheeks before they can splatter the page. He rereads the line that caught his attention - “a Lover, rather than a Hero” - and wants desperately to curl into himself, to crawl into bed and blot out the rest of the world.

Vahl had not been angry with him. 

Vahl had thought of him in the future - waking alone, without him, meeting generations who no doubt would grow up reading Vahl’s history - and had chosen to erase their past not out of anger or bitterness, but to allow G’raha to be the center of his own story.

Vahl hadn’t wanted to overshadow him.

“G’raha?”

He remembers Kokoju’s presence and flinches, pulling the book towards his chest. “I’m sorry. May I -”

“Keep it?” Her large yellow eyes are filled with concern. “I will make you a copy of the passage, but I have yet to finish cataloging it. I couldn’t let such a thing -”

“Of course,” he interrupts, coming to his senses. “Of course - I’m sorry. Here.” He closes the book and hands it back to her, hoping she doesn’t notice his shaking hands.

He cannot retreat to his room now - not with Biggs planning an excursion to the lower floors - but it takes all of his willpower to make that choice. 

“I debated showing you,” Kokoju whispers, wrapping her small arms around the book. “I knew it would be hard, but - you deserve to know. It’s your story.”

“ _Our_ story,” he corrects her gently, dropping his gaze to the floor. “It has always been our story.”

Her tiny hand pats his knee. “We’ll save him - I know we will.”

G’raha nods, forcing an encouraging smile onto his face, but his mind is full of selfish thoughts. Vahl will be saved, yes, but they will not meet again. 

“I think I have to -” 

Derrik’s sudden appearance interrupts him; the mayor sprints up the lower stairs to the passage leading down to the tower's underbelly. “Come on, both of you! We’re about to go exploring!” He disappears from their view just as an exhausted-looking Nalza appears, climbing the stairs behind him. 

“If I have to be an explorer, so do you!” She waves at them both before she too disappears down the passageway to Biggs and the waiting engineers.

“This was a bad time,” Kokoju murmurs. “I should have waited.”

G’raha shakes his head, though he cannot help silently agreeing with her. How is he to focus on the discoveries waiting below when his mind is moored in the past?

The lover or the hero - 

Why had Vahl not thought he could be both?


	10. Black and Blue

Walking through the underbelly of Syrcus Tower proves far more unsettling than G’raha expected. Once they are through the sloped passageway leading down to the first landing the darkness sets in from all sides; though the engineers brought their small magitek lanterns the light they throw does not reach far. G’raha stays near the hallway while they map out the landing, wringing his hands around his staff as he tries to focus.

The revelation Kokoju dropped on him plays havoc with his ability to focus. He should be trying to work past the fear of the darkness in front of him, yet his mind repeatedly retreats to thoughts of Vahl.

What shame is there in being the Warrior of Light’s lover? What had Vahl been trying to protect him from? What could have possibly convinced him to remove all record of their relationship? 

On the one hand it’s a comfort to know Vahl thought of him later in his journeys, but G’raha cannot work past his confusion and driving need to know: it doesn’t matter that he was on Vahl’s mind if he cannot decipher why. 

Something must have convinced Vahl it was necessary.

But what? And when?

He’d already been to Dravania, that much is obvious. The writer made mention of the Far East, a land G’raha knows very little about. Perhaps the answer lies in Doma…?

“G’raha! We need you!”

Jolted to the present, he gives his head a shake. The endless dark in front of him is still there - still black as pitch, still terrifying in its opaqueness. The others are gathered quite some ways away, creating a small island of green light in that terrifying black. G’raha swallows hard before he rushes to catch up, blinking furiously as though his eyes will ever adjust to the gloom.

“It’s a teleporter of sorts,” Nalza explains to the crowd. She kneels beside a circular platform; the light from the lanterns shows that the floor they stand on ends a few fulms from her feet. “I believe it already has a direction programmed within - it only needs to be turned on.”

“Good thing we have our resident caretaker,” Biggs says, his grin illuminated in frightening detail by the green lights. “Willing to give this a go?”

Burying his fear, G’raha dips through the engineers to kneel beside Nalza. The pad is gold and blue, similar to most of the tower’s decor above-ground, but he has only seen similar teleporters on the higher levels. “It’s a jump-pad - I can activate it, but it’s going to fling the first person to step onto it into the unknown.”

“Ah.” Biggs frowns, turning his gaze towards the gloom. “Would it register an object? Could we set a lantern on it to see where it throws it?”

The mental image of a tiny green lantern soaring through the dark is equal parts hilarious and horrifying - such a small thing, yet who knows what they might glimpse in its wake? “Better the magitek than me.”

G’raha has to do very little to activate it: a mere swipe of his fingers across the crystal floor wakes the machine. A steady blue glow radiates from the teleporter, throwing enough light to signal that it is active but not enough to reveal more of the space around them.

“Nothing for it,” Biggs says, stepping forward. Everyone watches as he opens his hand over the teleporter; the lantern falls, but instead of hitting ground the jump-pad flings it far to the right. Nalza and G’raha rise, gazing open-mouthed as the little green light flies across space, revealing very little about what it passes over - until it lands on another platform some few yalms away.

“Slightly lower elevation,” Chalvatot mutters, one hand stroking his chin. “See how it didn’t even bounce? The magic controls the descent.”

“I’m satisfied,” Biggs announces, and steps onto the jump-pad. Cries of, “No!” echo throughout the space - reinforcing to G’raha how massive the room they are in must be - but there’s nothing for it: the moment Biggs’s foot settles over the pad he is flung through the air, following the path of the lantern. He vanishes from sight, becoming one with the gloom until he lands in the new patch of green light.

“Come on!” the Roegadyn shouts, waving his arms. “We don’t have all day!”

“This is how I die,” G’raha mutters, watching as, one-by-one, the team trusts themselves to the ancient machine. “Flung through the air like a children’s toy.”

“Go on,” Derrik says, pushing him forward with a laugh. G’raha stumbles, trying to catch himself, but the jump-pad registers him before he can pull back and then - 

Air. Wind. Darkness under his feet, beside him, around him - there is only the steadily-growing glow of the lanterns in front of him to break up that black space. It’s over before he can draw breath to scream; his feet gently touch the ground and he staggers forwards, planting his staff on the ground to give himself something to balance on.

“Sorry!” Derrik is suddenly there with him, having followed right behind. “Figured if you weren’t given a push you might not make it. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

The mayor turns without waiting for an answer, leaving G’raha glaring daggers at his back. It takes more than a few minutes for his knees to stop shaking; in that time the rest of the team follows. Kokoju comes last, her enormous eyes seeming even larger as she joins G’raha off to one side. 

“That was not my favourite experience,” she mutters. “Is there no teleporter back?”

A moment’s silence - and dread - before G’raha remembers himself. He pulls an Allagan cube from his pocket. “I can create temporary teleportation cubes should this path not return us to the start.”

“That solves that,” Biggs says with a grin - as though they hadn’t all followed him into danger without even a sliver of a back-up plan. “Come on! There are strange glass domes up ahead.”

G’raha lets them go without him, hanging back with Kokoju as they both recover from the thrill - or terror - that is following Biggs on an adventure. 

He can’t understand how Vahl did this consistently. They haven’t even been attacked and already he wants to leave!

“Cages!” Chalvatot exclaims from a distance. “Come see!”

_Cages_. Fear tightens G’raha’s lungs as he forces himself to trot after Kokoju, ignoring the gloom to his left and right as he centers on the green glow ahead. Several transparent glass domes sit along both sides of the platform; though some are empty, strange creatures loom behind others. The glass throws back the light from their lanterns, creating unnerving reflections and glimmers.

“I’ll ask you not to touch any of these,” Biggs murmurs as G’raha stands beside him. They stare at a terrifying creature on the other side of the glass; its patterns and horns are unlike anything G’raha has ever seen. Though it stands on its hind legs it does not move, appearing to be locked in stasis. “Scientist I may be, I leave biology to others.”

“Aetherochemistry,” Nalza whispers, her upturned nose bare ilms from the glass. “An Allagan speciality. I think - I think they _made_ these.”

“Is every dome intact?” G’raha asks, a sudden panic spiking through him. “Nothing has escaped?”

Quiet spreads over their group as G’raha’s fear moves them to inspect every cage, but it appears his worry is unfounded: what few deserted cages exist are free from crack or crevice, sitting empty as a testament to potential rather than witness to beasts run amok.

Rather than reassuring him, G’raha finds his fear buries inwards. So these cages around them are complete - what is to say that every dome has gone unbroken? This space has existed for millenia: surely at least _one_ of the protections failed.

“Should we call for Hollwyda?” he murmurs to Derrik, who is inspecting a creature that looks like a minotaur with blue wires wound through its horns.

Derrik gives him a wry smile. “After the Birdmen I never would have taken you to be afraid of creatures such as these.”

“It isn’t the creatures that unnerve me,” G’raha replies, gripping his staff tight. The urge to cast a spell - any spell, anything he can think of that might serve as either protection or distraction - is nearly overwhelming. “It is the idea that something hungry could be lurking out of sight, biding its time - waiting to strike.”

Derrik closes his eyes and pulls back from the dome. “Why? _Why_ would you say that? Why would you plant that thought in my head at this moment?”

“It’s the same reason I avoid deep water,” G’raha adds, feeling slightly better that he has spread his anxiety to someone else - at least now he won’t be the only one jumping at shadows.

“G’raha! Another jump-pad!”

Three jump-pads - and three terrifying, heart-stopping jumps - later the group gathers on a large square platform. No walls border it, though two sides are blocked by rows of domes full of tiger-like creatures. Biggs and the engineers gather at the far side of the platform, kneeling perilously close to the edge as they discuss what to do next.

“Drop a light down,” Biggs orders, and before G’raha can move to stop him, Chalvatot lets his lantern fall. Everyone hovers near the edge of darkness, watching that small green shape plummet through space. G’raha’s mind conjures monsters from the shadowy depths, alien creatures rising out of the gloom to snatch at the lantern with maw or claw - but the light hits a solid surface far, far below them. It splatters against whatever it has landed on, spreading dimly-glowing green liquid across the space.

“Excellent!” Biggs slams one fist into his other palm, clearly not worried by the loss of one lantern. “We’re going down!”

The half-dozen engineers waste no time constructing a mechanism to rappel each of them down that massive drop; G’raha keeps to the back, secretly praying they will be unable to continue - but he should have guessed the Ironworks would remain undaunted by something so simple as a long fall. Chalvatot takes the lead, strapping himself into a harness connected to a network of ropes and pulleys. They lower the old Duskwight down into the depths with naught but a single lantern for company; G’raha does not have the stomach to watch.

“Did you have a chance to speak with Beta?” Biggs asks quietly, moving beside G’raha while they wait.

“Ah, no - it slipped my mind.” He’d taken the mech with him to inspect the sphere, but upon learning the Crystal Tower went down almost as far as it went up he’d completely forgotten to ask Beta to share his news. “It has been a hectic day.”

“Damn. It’s rather important.” Biggs looks unusually awkward; he runs a hand through his hair before resting both hands on his hips and glaring at G’raha as if this is his fault. “I should have told you yesterday.”

“Told me _what_ , Biggs?”

Chalvatot’s voice calls up from the depths, interrupting whatever Biggs intends to say. “I’ll tell you later,” he says instead, and hurries to the ledge. 

G’raha rests his forehead against his staff and closes his eyes. Kokoju’s revelations, the unrelenting darkness pressing in from every side, and now Biggs’s strange, furtive attitude? Even one would be a strain on his already-divided attention, but all three at once prove beyond his capabilities to process. 

“You don’t have to keep going.”

He opens his eyes. Tiny Kokoju stands near him, sympathy shining bright in those yellow eyes. Though he knows she speaks of the tower’s underbelly, he can’t help but apply it to their mission at large. 

What would happen if he just - stopped? The Ironworks’ plan had always revolved around doing this without him - he is an added boon, a key to simplicity. _Surely_ they can move forward without him. He can retreat to focus on something smaller, something less significant, something that brokers no anxiety and little risk.

Vahl never thought like that. Vahl never doubted, because there had been no room for doubt: no one could have done what he’d done. If he’d let fear and negative thoughts dictate his actions the Ascians would have won much, much sooner. If G’raha doesn’t help the Ironworks, who is to say they will ever return to the past?

“I do,” he says, quiet but clear. He even manages a small smile. “Who else is there?”

Understanding brings a smile of her own, though when she turns to the ledge - where Biggs is being prepped to descend - she visibly shudders. “I will stay here, I think. Nalza knows Allagan ruins better than I do.”

G’raha lets go of his jealousy as he moves closer to the ledge. There are worse things he could be doing, he supposes, though all of them fail to come to mind.

Biggs is finally harnessed and ready to go; he straps his lantern to his chest, causing the green light to throw all the angles of his face into sharp, eerie relief. He gives them what he no doubt intends to be a smile of encouragement, but with his features shining sickly green it comes off as almost menacing. A thumbs-up signals his beginning descent; he quickly vanishes from view.

While Biggs descends, half the team decides to remain behind with Kokoju, inspecting both the clear domes and their surroundings. Derrik volunteers as well, but G’raha is not given that choice. As caretaker he _must_ proceed to wherever this pit leads.

All too soon it is G’raha’s turn. The harness straps over his chest, around his waist, and between his legs. It is not at all comfortable, but the pain in his groin and back are quickly forgotten as he finds himself dangled over empty space, with nothing below his feet except the distant forms of Chalvatot and Biggs. 

“I suppose it’s too late to change my mind,” he says, forcing a smile on his face even as his voice quivers. A row of engineers all shake their heads. “Onwards, then.”

Panic finds him quickly. Closing his eyes does nothing to quell the fear as his imagination takes flight.

What waits behind that curtain of darkness?

More creatures in tubes?

One large slumbering creature, perhaps close enough to touch?

Does it move towards him even now - behind him, smelling his neck, disappearing below his feet - while he twists and turns, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever is there? The back of his neck tingles as his breathing quickens; his heartbeat fills his ears as his clammy hands grasp the ropes holding him.

What if there is _nothing_? Nothing but a drop, an endless black pit that stretches to the center of their world? How long could he fall?

How long could he scream?

G’raha leans his head against one of the ropes, praying to every god he knows that he will survive this nightmare.

“Your tail is _enormous_.”

G’raha opens his eyes. Chalvatot and Biggs are mere yalms below him; he is quickly lowered past their heads until he is a fulm or so off the ground. His shaking hands cannot undo the harness; the two engineers help him struggle out of it until he drops the short distance to the metal platform. They give the rope two quick tugs and the group above them begins hauling it up again, but G’raha does not care to watch. He maneuvers himself to hands and knees, dragging himself across the wet floor until he finds a wall he can lean against.

“Was the World of Darkness like this?” Biggs kneels beside him, clearly disconcerted by G’raha’s reaction to this adventure.

G’raha manages to focus his attention on the question, rather than the gloom around him. “No. It was dark, but not like this. There were lights and clouds, and a sense of up and down. Here is - here is _oppressive_.”

“Hmm.”

“You sound like Nalza,” Chalvatot chides. His back is to them - perhaps giving G’raha a measure of privacy - as he watches the next person on their descent. “That woman needs to use her words - she is a writer! How can she stand to let grunts speak for her?”

“She is a writer, not a speaker,” Biggs replies. “You said it yourself.”

“Well, whatever she is she’s almost here. I hope she can make sense of this space, because I damned well can’t.”

G’raha finally takes a moment to look around him. The wall he leans against is the only one he can see: metal railings border two sides of the platform, while the last side narrows to a small walkway that quickly disappears into the goom. Where the floor far above them had been stone, this metal fabrication feels much more temporary - though he does not question its sturdiness, it is not the same quality as the massive stone walkways above them.

“You can control the tower, can’t you?” Biggs’s attention is directed up into the gloom. “Could you - I don’t know - _sense_ what’s beyond?”

G’raha shakes his head. “No. I can control through touch and sight, or through aether if I know it exists. I’d have to see what’s out there to risk using magic.”

“Blast.” He turns as Nalza reaches their platform, assisting her out of her harness. She is much more refined than G’raha was, landing on her feet effortlessly. 

With their team cut in two it doesn’t take long for the remaining engineers to descend. They leave the harness hanging in mid-air; though everyone hopes G’raha will be able to teleport them out, there is no sense in not having a practical back-up plan.

G’raha manages to position himself in the middle of the crowd, following behind Biggs and the bald, scarred engineer he’d met on his second day. 

“Emund, bring your light around here,” Biggs says, gesturing to the bald Hyur. Together they lean over the side of the pathway, stretching their arms as far as they possibly can. G’raha wants to grab them both by the backs of their jackets and pull them into the center of the path, but he stays where he is. His fingers grasp his lantern so tight they ache; he cannot imagine moving any limbs into that imposing black space.

“There!”

“I see it,” Emund grunts, stretching a little further. “Blue crystal.”

G’raha can see nothing - but he chooses to look no further. The other engineers rush to their side, trying to glimpse what Biggs’s keen eyes discovered. 

“Do you see, G’raha? That glint of blue?”

He moves slightly closer to Biggs and Emund, following the magitek light as he strains to see through the darkness. Something reflects the light at a distance: the smallest hint of shimmer of dust-covered crystal. “I see it.”

“Too far to reach,” Biggs grunts to G’raha’s relief. “Look for others - something closer, something we can get him to touch.”

“Touch?” G’raha repeats, watching Emund and the half-dozen engineers take off along the dark path, their lanterns raised high as they scout through the darkness for a hint of blue.

“That hand of yours seems to wake up bits and pieces as we go. If the crystals down here are used like the lamps up above, it would make sense for you to touch them to turn them on.”

G’raha narrows his eyes. “Who’s to say they’re switches for lamps? How do you know I won’t inadvertently open all those cages on the higher floors?”

The Roegadyn actually rolls his eyes. “Come along, G’raha. I sincerely doubt they’re going to leave such an important button out in the open where anyone could touch it.”

The engineers lead the way forward, their little lights bobbing in the darkness as they continue down the long, dark pathway. G’raha follows a few steps behind, resisting the urge - thanks to the last dregs of his patience - to mutter under his breath.

As fortune would have it, the path they venture down leads them directly to a pillar capped with a wide blue crystal. It rises out of the darkness from the depths far below, a long, thin structure that is at odds with the rest of the emptiness. The path itself is a dead end, going no further than the pillar.

“Touch it.”

G’raha curls his blue hand towards his chest, unnerved by the half-dozen pairs of eyes turned in his direction. Everyone glows green in the light of the lanterns; their expressions look oddly menacing when lit from waist height. 

“Please, G’raha.” Biggs stands at the end of the path, right beside the capped pillar. Nalza stands with him, her arms crossed and her toes tapping impatiently on the walkway. 

The engineers part to either side of the walkway, leaving him a small space to pass through. As unnerving as the entire experience has been, walking past green-lit, silent people to a strange, ancient contraption might be the most unsettling aspect of the entire venture. Every bone in G’raha’s body wants to freeze, to teleport out into the sunlight and never ever look back - but he knows this is the last step. This strange pillar will either do nothing, or open the next stage of their adventure - and regardless which one it is, he will teleport himself out.

The crystal is larger than it seemed at a distance, big enough that two hands would not cover it, and though G’raha moves in front of it he is not eager to touch. Irrational as it may be, he cannot help fearing what might occur.

“By the twelve,” Nalza mutters as she grabs his wrist. “You weren’t like this before.” 

“Nalza! Wait -”

Too late. She pulls him forward, forcing his crystal hand against the blue crystal atop the pillar. For a moment - a long, silent moment - nothing happens. And then -

Light. Blue light from everywhere, radiating up and around - G’raha tilts his head back and feels his jaw drop at the sight of the massive blue crystal suspended over their heads, a veritable mothercrystal in its own right, but there are others along the walls, along hidden walkways revealed only now, along other pillars and dangling from the ceiling. Light illuminates the entire room, reflecting and glinting against the many crystal surfaces.

“Bloody brilliant!” Derrik’s shout echoes down to them, followed by a “whoop!” of excitement from one of the engineers.

“I would’ve done it myself,” G’raha murmurs, snatching his arm out of Nalza’s grasp. Though neither she nor the crystal harmed him in any way, he still cannot help feeling taken advantage of.

“Then you should have done it.”

His retort is cut off by sound - grinding, groaning, a colossal cacophony of noise. Everyone on the walkway reaches out left and right to grab the railing on either side of them, holding on with stiff arms as the entire room shudders and shakes. Again G’raha’s jaw drops as the floor in front of them slides back, spinning slowly into itself as the ancient mechanism forces massive panels to roll back. The hole opening up underneath them is massive - yalms and yalms, almost half as wide as the tower itself - and a steady blue glow emanates from the deepest reaches far below. The glow makes it impossible to see what might be below them, but the sense of space is undeniable.

“The heart of the tower,” Chalvatot gasps, pushing past Nalza to stand at the very edge of the walkway. “Cid had theorized, but - it’s here! We’ve found it!”

“G’raha did,” Biggs says, a gleam in his eyes. “Get the rest from above and bring down the equipment - we’re going down into it.”

“We’re what?”

The Roegadyn shakes his head. “Not you - us. With the lights on we can figure out the rest, but - if you would be so kind as to leave a teleportation crystal behind?”

“Ah.” Panic dispersed as quickly as it came, G’raha nods. He can’t keep his gaze from straying out towards that massive space, but as curious as he is he does not need to be part of the team that descends any further. Daylight calls to him in a way he’s never felt before; he has no inclination to stay any longer than he has to. “Of course.”

The engineers and Nalza rush past him, hurrying back to the landing to get their equipment, but Biggs remains with G’raha. He barely notices the Roegadyn as he takes out an Allagan cube, turning it over and over in his hand until his nerves calm enough to _reach_ for the tower, to connect this small cube with the larger one at the base of the staircase far above them. It is a simple connection - like tying a knot in very thick yarn - and the cube reacts instantly, floating in place over his hand. 

“There,” he says, giving himself a small shake. “Good to go, which means I am also ready to leave.”

“Wait, please.”

Something in Biggs’s tone immediately sets G’raha on edge once again. He turns to find the Roegadyn watching him with a strange look on his face, half pained and somehow hopeful at the same time. “I would really like to go upstairs, Biggs.”

“I know you would - but that news I mentioned, the information I wanted you to talk to Beta about: you deserve to know. As the tower’s caretaker I should have told you this the moment we returned.”

G’raha shifts anxiously as confusion and exhaustion pull him away - he wants to leave, to get out of this place and into fresh air - but the sincerity in Biggs’s eyes moves him to patience. “What is it?”

“The tower creates the portal, right? We’re not going to try to duplicate that part of this - we’re going to continue using the tower.”

G’raha nods tiredly. “I knew that already.”

“And the tower has vast reservoirs of power, correct? Beyond anything else in existence?” Biggs is strangely intense, his excitement and seriousness spurring him to talk quickly. “There’s no easy way to explain this, but we’ve deduced that connecting our time travel tech to the tower will enable the portal and the time travel magic to work _together,_ while also taking care of our concerns about powering the damn thing. That’s what we intend to do down here: we'll connect our new colossus to the heart of Syrcus Tower.”

“That makes sense -”

Biggs speaks over him. “Chalvatot speculates - and I agree with him - that doing so will send the entire tower back in time.”

G’raha’s heart pounds in his ears. He puts out a hand to steady himself, leaning against the railing as he focuses on breathing. Shock, excitement, hope - he is overwhelmed with questions, swamped with anxiety and wonder and the fear that perhaps this does not mean what he wants it to mean. Perhaps they will send his home travelling through time, stranding him in this nightmare of a present. Perhaps he will live out his days in Eight Sentinels, fighting Birdmen and snow. Perhaps - 

“G’raha.” 

He meets Biggs’s eyes and forces himself to ask the only question that matters. “Who would go back in time with the tower?”

Biggs’s smile is gentle. “Who else but its caretaker?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I basically lived in the Twinning while writing this - figuring out what was Allagan and what was Ironworks was a bit of a mental workout!
> 
> As always, thank you for taking the time to read!


	11. The Evil in the Fields We Know

Elation carries G’raha through the next few weeks of work. Biggs has numerous requests - for teleportation cubes, for help powering his various projects, for blueprints and schematics and opinions - and G’raha is more than overjoyed to assist with all of it. He is everywhere at once, teleporting from Xande’s throne to the very darkest corners of the tower’s underbelly to guarantee the Ironworks’ team has everything they need.

Hope kindles the greatest flame. He cannot sleep, cannot rest - the sooner the team completes their work, the sooner he will return to the past - 

The sooner he will return to Vahl.

It’s bubbling excitement, indescribable nerves, gleeful laughter - he feels so young again, as he had when NOAH had been founded, when he and Vahl had traversed the tower together. Every morning brings more optimism and dedication, more fervour for the work ahead. He has no idea how the Ironworks will put everything together, but Biggs is confident, determined, and steadfast. G’raha trusts the Roegadyn to see this through.

The underbelly begins to change, transforming from a vast empty space to a network of passages and storage containers. The Ironworks move all their technology into the lower area as soon as they can, storing enormous blue and white crates along the floor and building walkways above them. Generators, jump pads, cables thick as G’raha’s thigh: anything and everything suddenly spawns in the space below his home, leading downwards to that massive hole containing the heart of Syrcus Tower.

Early tests indicate that the dormant aether in the air complicates any spell even G’raha attempts to cast if he descends within; his Allagan cubes work unpredictably in that blue, glowing space. The Ironworks quickly builds a jump pad instead, a simple - if terrifying - means of conveying everyone through that gaping hole - and as soon as that is in place, the _real_ work begins.

“Why are you building a room within a room?”

“Simplicity,” Biggs says, arms crossed as he watches his team at work. “It isn’t a room, by the way - consider it a charging station for our new machine.”

G’raha finds the idea unsettling. “You are building a generator big enough to fit Alexander inside?”

“Of course - it is much easier to control and test within its own facility, rather than being open to the aether already in this space.”

“It seems -”

“Complex, excessive, expensive, and a waste of resources and time?” Biggs snorts. “Chalvatot made that argument before you. Cid and Nero both recommended this, and I intend to follow their instructions.”

“I see.” If there is one thing G’raha has learned in his months in Eight Sentinels, the word of Cid and Nero is as good as law. “What is the timeframe you’re operating on?”

“Eager, are you?” The Roegadyn shakes his head. “It’ll be a few months yet, I’m afraid. We’re still attempting to reorient the portal towards a different shard, and until we’ve finished that task our team remains divided.”

 _Months_ \- G’raha tells himself that a few more months is little to wait, not compared to the centuries he slumbered, but he is anxious to move faster. “Anything I can do - let me know.”

“You are doing more than -” Biggs stops mid-sentence and frowns, putting his finger to his ear. “I hear you, Hollwyda. What’s wrong?” His eyes widen before sliding to G’raha. “We’ll be there.”

A trickle of nerves slides through G’raha’s belly. “What is it?”

“They’re hoping you can tell them. Come on.”

*

They stand on the wall facing north: G’raha, Biggs, Hollwyda, Derrik, and Kokoju gather near the northeast watchtower, gazing towards Xelphatol. Much of the snow has melted with the turn in seasons, but the wind is still achingly cold. It tears at bare skin just as it pushes at the clouds above them, turning the entire sky into a fast-moving muddle of grey.

“Tell me what you see.” Hollwyda hands G’raha a pair of binoculars, her voice monotone.

He takes them gingerly, placing them against the bridge of his nose as he follows their directions to stare out over the rocky land.

Two distant figures stand on the edge of a cliff quite some distance away; G’raha would bet they are further north than the remains of Saint Coinach’s Find. The duo faces Eight Sentinels, but even with the binoculars it is impossible to see their faces.

Red masks obscure their features.

He swallows hard and passes the binoculars on. “Ascians.”

“What do you know of them?” Derrik asks, eyes never leaving the horizon.

G’raha shakes his head, his stomach churning. “Very little. My focus was always on Allag, and Vahl never wanted to speak of them.”

“He killed a few,” Kokoju says. Someone had found her a stool to stand on; she still balances on her toes to see over the parapet. “And he enabled the deaths of others.”

“How many are there?”

“The Black Wolf couldn’t say,” Kokoju replies. “In his writings he theorized there were three in charge, one of which was killed during the Dragonsong War.”

“And the other two?”

“They succeeded in bringing about the Eighth Umbral Calamity.” Her voice shakes as she tilts her head towards the cliff. “One they never found - and that one in white is the other.”

“G’raha, make a shield.” Hollwyda’s voice is low. “Now.”

He is running before she finishes speaking, flying down the stairs as fast as his feet can move him. One hand fumbles in his pocket for another Allagan cube, intending to set up a semi-permanent protection at the base of the tower - just as he had the day the Ixal chased Derrik’s airship - but the mayor’s roar warns him he is out of time.

“Protect!” he gasps, sliding to a stop as he flings his hand skyward. The dome shimmers into place just in time; explosions of dark aether flare against it, the sound reverberating around Eight Sentinels. Screams and cries of shock echo through the town as explosion after explosion darken the sky.

G’raha drops to his knees as more and more aether funnels through him into the shield. The strength of the aether channeling through him is overwhelming; he gasps huge gulps of air, forcing himself to stay calm as the assault drags on and on. It is all he can do to hold his crystal hand aloft, pouring as much power as he can into the shield, but he can hear the townspeople around him, can hear doors slamming and people running. Animals howl and screech from across town and G'raha grits his teeth, fighting the urge to scream along with them.

It stops as suddenly as it began. The silence is alarming; G’raha’s own breathing sounds like thunder in the quiet after the cacophony.

“Allagan blood. Fascinating.”

He forces himself to his feet to spin around, stumbling in his haste. The two Ascians float mere fulms above his shield, held in the air by their own power. Pounding feet to one side halt as they near him; he hears Hollwyda curse and can only assume the rest of his companions are with her.

He cannot take his eyes off the Ascians. Both masked and robed - one in black, the other in white - he has no doubt they are evil incarnate. Harbingers of doom, destroyers of worlds, the ones who enabled Garlemald to create Black Rose - _these_ are Vahl’s murderers.

G’raha’s hatred is unfathomable.

“What do you want?” he demands.

“Only to sate our curiosity,” the one in white replies; his voice is remarkably soothing. “Whence did you come, heir to Allag?”

“Syrcus Tower,” he says shortly, in no mood to play these creatures’ game. 

“ _Clearly_.” The white robe makes a dismissive motion with one hand. “We will be watching you with much interest, Miqo’te. Farewell.” He vanishes into a dark cloud of aether - a voidgate, just like the portal to the Thirteenth - leaving his fellow behind. 

“You have something to say?” Derrik calls to the Ascian in black, stepping in front of G’raha. “Speak it or begone.”

The figure is silent, but G’raha has no doubt the Ascian is looking at him. He stares back at that mask, his fury and hatred pulling his lips back in a snarl. As tempting as it is to lash out, he knows he cannot hold the shield and cast simultaneously - and he will not risk leaving the town open to attack.

The black figure disappears without a word, seeming almost to be swallowed by his cloud of aether. Nothing is left behind save the grey, overcast sky.

“Biggs,” he says, his voice steady as he stares at the place where Death had been, “Your schedule has changed.”

*

Dark clouds cover the evening sky, passing overhead slow as snails. The air above Eight Sentinels has the slightest shimmer to it: the smallest reflections of light from the fires and lanterns below glint off G’raha’s new shield. 

“Semi-permanent,” he says, watching Hollwyda as she stares up at it. They stand on the front porch of the home she shares with Derrik, Chalvatot, and several others. Bright light streams through the open front door and windows, creating an oasis of golden light in the midst of evening gloom. “I can remove it whenever the airship needs to leave or new merchants arrive.”

“This puts you in charge of our defenses,” she says quietly. “Are you positive it will hold?”

“Relatively.”

She snorts and shakes her head, but she knows just as well as him that there is little more they can do. In all their history few have had the power to challenge the Ascians - if Eight Sentinels is able to keep them out, even for a short while, they would count that as a victory.

“It’s all coming to a head, isn’t it?”

They both turn. Derrik sits on the steps leading down to the road, his head resting against the step railing. Firelight hits his back and throws his front into shadow; from G’raha’s angle it is impossible to see his expression. For the first time the mayor’s boundless energy seems to have seeped out of him, rendering him listless and morose. 

“The moment of truth,” he continues, his eyes on the shield high above. “Is all of this worth it?”

“It will be,” Hollwyda says, a strange look on her face. G’raha can’t help but feel this is a conversation for the two of them, but he can’t leave without passing Derrik on the steps. He stays quiet and hopes they’ll forget he’s there. 

“You know what the other settlements say,” the mayor murmurs. “You know they believe the effort we put forth could save this star.”

“Nothing can,” Hollwyda interrupts. “As I’ve told you before: if the Warrior of Light couldn’t save it, neither could we.”

He waves his hand impatiently. “Not then - _now_. Some of the smartest people in Eorzea are gathered here, working on Cid’s final project. Could they not be leading nations? Turning this world into a better place? Pulling our people out of the muck and ruin to foster true civilization?”

“For what purpose?” G’raha’s awkwardness vanishes as he steps forward. Both of them startle, clearly having forgotten he stood behind them, but he continues, “The research you’ve done points towards the undeniable fact that the Ascians cause Calamities, murdering millions on our world and millions more on others. So we ‘pull ourselves out the muck’ - for what? For them to do this again, and again, and again? We are insects to them, pawns in whatever plan they pursue.” He rests his hand on Derrik’s shoulder. He understands the pain the man endures - the confusion and uncertainty - but he cannot allow the man to doubt. “If you join the other settlements and forsake the Ironworks, your children’s children will _still_ be fighting this war. Without the Warrior of Light what chance would they stand?”

Derrik covers his face with his hands. The Roegadyn hurries down the steps to kneel at her husband’s feet, resting her hands on his knees. 

“We knew this would be hard,” she whispers. “We knew this would hurt.”

“I know.” The mayor’s voice is muffled. “I’ve always known. I just -“ His voice cracks and he falters; the silence swells until one hand reaches up to grasp his woolen cap. He drags it from his head, allowing his unruly curls spill free, and turns to G’raha. 

Above those piercing, fiery green eyes is a small pearl in the middle of his forehead: a Garlean third eye. 

“I grew up with all of _this_ hanging over me.” Derrik turns back to Hollwyda, who watches him silently. “I always knew the odds were bad, but these people - _our_ people - put their lives on the line. They’ve gambled with everything they have, everything they _are_ , to bring my ancestor’s dream to fruition.” He curls forward and Hollwyda meets him halfway, cradling his head against her shoulder. “Why did it have to be _me_?”

G’raha closes his eyes. Had the same words not crossed his mind often of late? Had he not cursed fate to put him on this path? How easy it would be, he cannot help but think, if he was anywhere but here. 

He opens his eyes and moves down the steps, waiting until Derrik raises red-rimmed eyes to his. 

“Someone else might not have come this far,” G’raha says quietly. “It has to be you, because where would we be without you?”

_Just as it has to be me._

_It always had to be me._

“We’re going to head to bed,” Hollwyda says after a few silent moments, gently pulling her husband to his feet. There is understanding and gratitude on her face; he knows she will have further words for him tomorrow. “Rest well.”

“Of course.” G’raha moves off the steps, watching the two of them move across the porch. His thoughts are already his own, moving on from Derrik’s sorrow to his own weighty contemplation.

“Thank you,” Derrik says before they pass through the door. He is clearly torn; embarrassment turns his face red, but gratitude moves him to meet G’raha’s eyes. “For making it this far, too.”

He tilts his head in acknowledgement, not daring to speak. The captain and the mayor disappear inside, leaving G’raha alone in the road.

It hadn’t always been a choice. He’d been bitter at the start - depressed, regretful, even angry - when he’d had little faith in the plan and no hope for the future. Even with his resolve renewed there are _still_ mornings he wakes from nightmares, still times he must take for himself to battle his demons, still days he cannot help but wish -

He shakes his head, clearing his mind of such thoughts, and gazes up at that cloud-covered, shimmering sky. It matters litte how hard each day is or how deep his regret runs: there is no question that he is on the right course. Had he not joined Rammbroes and the others because he wanted to change the world? Had he not sacrificed his immediate future to save the history and technology of an entire race? Had he not made his choice the moment he journeyed to Mor Dhona? 

Only G'raha can walk this path - wherever it may lead.


	12. Ω

G’raha finds Biggs and Chalvatot arguing the next morning. Their shouts echo through the underbelly of Syrcus Tower; most of the engineers have stopped their work to watch. G’raha himself stays hidden in the passageway leading to the first landing, where he can observe their argument without being seen.

“It doesn’t matter how badly you want the damn thing to work - unless you can advance our technology a hundredfold it isn’t happening!”

“We don’t have time for excuses!” Biggs’s face is red with frustration; enormous bags under his eyes reveal how little he slept the night before. “Those are _Ascians_ knocking at our door! We either solve this problem or we start digging graves!”

“ _Biggs_!”

The president rounds on Derrik, who’d come barrelling from the other end of the platform. “Don’t you dare ‘doom and gloom’ me - not today! I’m being _realistic_ , unlike this ass!”

The mayor marches right up to him to stand chest to stomach with the Roegadyn. G’raha would laugh were their argument not so serious. “What you’re doing is stressing everyone who can hear you! How do you expect anyone to keep working if all they can think about are those red-faced bastards?” Derrik turns towards Chalvatot. “What’s the damn problem?”

The Elezen glares at Biggs before redirecting his attention. “The portal, sir. We can’t figure out how to reorient it to the First.”

“Have you tried _looking_ for the First?” Biggs shouts. 

“Enough!” Derrik holds up his hands, his yell far louder than either of theirs. “Both of you!” He points his finger towards Chalvatot. “Explain what the hell that means so I can take a fucking side!”

“Have you ever threaded a needle, sir?” Chalvatot runs a hand through his grey hair; with his head angled back the light throws every wrinkle into deep relief. He looks exhausted, drained, _old_ \- G’raha has the sinking feeling this problem is one he has struggled with for a long time. 

“I have.”

“Held it up to your eyes, didn’t you? Held it and the thread close to your face, so you could aim the tiny thing at the other tiny thing?”

“Obviously.”

“If I took the needle out of your hand and held it at the far end of the room, how well do you think you’d do?”

Derrik settles back with his hands on his hips. “Not bloody well.”

“Two months.” Chalvatot rounds on Biggs, who is still flushed red. “ _Two whole months_ we’ve tried to hit our target, but the interdimensional rift is a massive space! Infinity exists, Biggs, and you’re asking me to map the entire damn thing through a peephole!” One of his fingers prods Biggs’s chest. “Lunacy! I cannot do it, not with the tools we have now!”

“We do not have time to make new ones!”

“Then here is where we die!”

“Stop it, all of you!”

All three of them - plus the dozens of engineers staring open-mouthed - turn to G’raha. His shout echoes back to him and he just barely resists the urge to cringe. He feels all their eyes upon him as he descends from the tunnel mouth to the top platform of the underbelly. 

As tempting as it is to join in the yelling - to vent some of his frustration, doubt, and fear - he will not. This argument only wastes time - time they do not have. 

“Chalvatot,” he says, ignoring the other two as he stops in front of the Elezen. “To clarify: you need assistance traversing the interdimensional rift?”

“That’s the short of it.”

“Have you spoken with Beta?”

All three of the men gape at him.

A sliver of annoyance makes him shift, but he pushes it aside. His heart beats in his ears as he risks a small smile; who would have guessed that his journey to the Waking Sands would inadvertently provide him with this answer?

“I will take that as a ‘no’,” he continues, keeping his voice light. “Which is a shame, as I have no doubt it houses the answer to your question.” Confusion is clear on all of their faces - what a strange gift to have this rare tidbit of information! “What do you know of Omega?”

“It was a weapon,” Biggs answers at once. “Employed by Allag and the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. The Warrior of Light destroyed it.”

“Do you know where it came from?” Seeing more blank looks, G’raha’s smile widens. “Not from our star, or anywhere near - like Midgardsormr, Omega traversed the rift to reach us.”

It is a delight to watch all of their faces. Shock, joy, confusion, excitement, rapt attention - like a kaleidoscope of emotions, the three men in front of him react in wildly various ways. 

“But Beta - what does that mech have to do with this?” Biggs demands. 

“Omega is described as a black and silver bug-like creature,” G’raha replies lightly. “Though it stood much taller than us, that is a familiar description, is it not?”

Biggs is already turning to run up the tunnel, followed closely by Chalvatot. “Someone find me that damn mech! Emund, check the town! Kisami, find me Nalva! The rest of you!” He stops at the tunnel door, turning to face the massive room. “Back to work! We’ve got a rift needle to thread!”

*

Beta, it turns out, is not quite the key they’d hoped it would be. Though its design is similar to Omega's, their code and capabilities differ wildly; the only information Beta can provide them is the confirmation that yes, Omega could travel through the rift, and that it’s last known resting place - where it battled Vahl centuries ago - is in Gyr Abania. 

“It’s not the worst news,” Kokoju says, her high voice trying for lightness. “It isn’t Ishgard.”

“Red Imps or Blue, I’m happy about neither.” Biggs sits at their large table with his arms crossed against the top, leaning heavily on it with glazed eyes. “Gyr fucking Abania.”

G’raha looks around at the others gathered in the small room in Eight Sentinels. Biggs, Kokoju, and Chalvatot sit across from him, while Derrik and Hollwyda are on his side of the table. All of them look forlorn; only Beta moves, it’s little legs bouncing constantly. “Could someone explain?”

“Ah, apologies.” Derrik rubs his face with his hands; his rough palms against his unshaven jaw make a sound like sandpaper. “That’s the land east of Gridania, what you’d know as once belonging to Ala Mihgo.”

“And what’s wrong with it?”

“Imperials,” Biggs says shortly. 

“Not the Reds,” Kokoju argues. “The Blues have parlayed in the past.”

“It’s a risk either way,” the Roegadyn mutters. “We try to sneak by and they catch us, we’re dead. We try to parlay and they take issue with us, we’re dead. We stay here and do nothing, we’re dead.”

“Thank you for your continued optimism,” Chalvatot says dryly. The Elezen has slunk down in his chair; the back of his head rests against the top of his chair as he stares at the ceiling. 

“Could I have a better explanation of these Imperials than that, please?” G’raha looks at the half-dozen people - the _friends_ , he corrects himself - gathered around the room. The mood changed so drastically from his revelation about Beta; he would give everything he can to set them back on that optimistic path.

“When the Empire fell it split into multiple factions.” Kokoju speaks as though she's reciting a lesson to students - which, G'raha muses, isn't too far off. “Over time some factions amalgamated, and a few died out, but they dwindled down to two main forces: what we know as the Reds and the Blues.”

“Is there a difference?”

“We don’t kill Blues on sight,” Hollwyda murmurs. She sits with her chair balanced back on two legs and her boots on the table; a knife in one hand deftly slices bite-sized chunks off an apple in the other. “And normally they don’t kill us.”

“The Blues were led by the Black Wolf after the Calamity,” Kokoju clarifies. “They’ve claimed most of Gyr Abania, but last we heard they’ve been held up at the Ghimlyt Dark.”

“They're not in Garlemald?”

“Most of Ilsabard’s been in the hands of the Reds since the Calamity. The Blues occasionally take bits of it back, but ever since the Reds allied with the Birdmen twenty years ago it’s been a stalemate.”

G’raha does his best to avoid Derrik’s gaze as his thoughts stray to the mayor’s first wife. “Biggs once said something about Reds in Ishgard?”

“Aye,” the Roegadyn says morosely. “It’s their only foothold south of Ilsabard and they’re holding onto it something fierce. Most of Coerthas is theirs, though Ishgard itself is still a warzone. The Elezen up in Dravania aren’t letting it go without a fight.”

It hurts to imagine the famed city under siege; as a boy he’d long entertained fantasies of walking through Ishgard - convincing the guards to sneak him in, visiting the Pillars, meeting their scholars - but it seems that chance has passed him by. 

Like so much else in Eorzea, he is two centuries too late.

“Back to the Blues,” he says, putting Ishgard out of his mind. “We need to speak with them to pass through Gyr Abania?”

“If we don’t want to be shot out of the sky, yes - but we need something of value, something we can trade, to make it worth their while.”

“Last time it was weapons,” Hollwyda says. She slices off another chunk of apple and holds it out to Derrik, who slurps it off the knife. “I doubt they’d take that again.”

“We’re not giving them food,” the mayor says with his mouth full. “Not with the winter we had.”

Silence falls over the table. G’raha watches them, frowning and shaking their heads, and sticks his hands in his pockets. He refuses to allow this to stop them - the salvation of the world cannot be halted because of what boils down to a mere _trade agreement_ \- but he doesn’t know enough about this world and the people in it. Vahl would have gone in with axe in hand, forcing the matter one way or the other, but he is not Vahl. He will not risk violence.

His hands idly play with the spare Allagan cubes he’s taken to carrying in his pockets when an idea sprouts that he cannot uproot. Frowning, he glances at Derrik. “Would they accept magic?”

The man tilts his head. “What do you have in mind?”

G’raha pulls the cubes out of his pocket and drops them on the table. “Teleportation cubes - short-range and temporary, but something they can activate without needing magic themselves. I’d only give them two or three - enough to make a few of their journeys easier, perhaps. Would that work?”

Biggs leans forward, picking up one of the cubes in his large fingers. He stares at it, eyes narrowed, before his gaze slides to G’raha. “I like it.”

“Me too.” Hollwyda drops her chair legs to the ground. “Something new, something that they can’t turn around and use on us.”

G’raha takes a deep breath. There is the bait, and now - “I would have to be there to activate them.”

“Ha!” Biggs leans back, half a grin twisting his mouth. “Of course you would.” He glances over to Derrik and Hollwyda. “What say you, Captain? If G’raha comes with us that leaves the shield in place until we return.”

“Gyr Abania isn’t far,” she says with a shrug of her shoulders. “I trust we’ll be fine until you return - it’s the airship I’m worried about.”

“With G’raha aboard? Nonsense.” Her husband flaps his hands as though dispelling the thought. “We’ll be safer than you, I expect.”

G’raha bites his tongue. Mage he might be, he does not know if the Allagan cubes will allow his magic to be quite as potent as the tower does - and that’s to say nothing of the mysterious weakness that had plagued him in Thanalan. 

Better not to make them worry, surely. He has no idea what will happen, and mentioning his fears would only add to their own. 

“We fly tomorrow,” Biggs announces. “I want soldiers and guards - armed men, just in case.”

As he and Hollwyda debate who and how many, Derrik turns his head so only G’raha can see him mouth, _“Doom and gloom.”_ G’raha smiles back, but secretly he agrees with Biggs. 

Better to walk in armed than empty-handed.

*

Vahl finds him in his dreams again. His nightmares often take him to Saint Coinach’s Find, though rarely does Vahl make an appearance. Usually the lack of him is what draws G’raha’s attention - he is always waiting, or searching for him - but this evening Vahl is already there, staring out over Silvertear Lake. 

G’raha halts a few feet away, licking dry lips. The axe on Vahl’s back is streaked black and brown with dried blood; his dark armor is no cleaner. Fresh blood drips from Vahl’s gloved hands, the splatter pulls at G’raha’s attention even as he tries to focus on the rest of the picture.

Beyond Vahl the dragon corpse no longer curls around the crashed airship: an enormous version of Beta now lies within the dragon’s limbs, massive in scale yet utterly destroyed.

“Everything repeats,” Vahl says into the silence. He sounds exhausted and though G’raha wants to reach for him he holds himself in check. “Over and over. They’ll do it again, you know. They’re already setting the plan in motion.”

“Who are?”

“The Ascians.” It’s Vahl speaking, but Kokoju’s voice. G’raha shivers at the disparity of a Lalafell’s voice coming out of a Hyur’s body. “The Black Wolf warned us. We tried - we tried so hard, G’raha. We couldn’t find them in time - we couldn’t -”

“What couldn’t you find?” He steps up beside Vahl, turning to look at him in profile. “What were you looking for?”

“Roses,” Vahl whispers; Derrik’s voice cracks on the word. “Red and blue roses - but all we found were black as pitch.”

G’raha turns as something below him catches his eye. His gorge rises as he watches black roses bloom below them, spreading across the pastel purple and blue land like mold. 

“I couldn’t do anything, G’raha.” Now he speaks in Biggs’s voice, but it’s cracked and broken - shattered, as G’raha’s heart shatters to hear it. “I couldn’t do a single thing.”

“No.” G’raha steps away, shaking his head. Something within him splinters - the loss he’s been holding on to, the regret and the guilt and the pain constantly dragging at him. It makes him furious. “I’m done hearing about this. This is a _dream_ , Vahl. I’m dreaming, and you’re a figment, and any moment now I’m going to be back in my bed wondering what I could have done differently - but I couldn’t do _anything_! It was out of my hands! It was out of everyone’s hands! You’re dead, Vahl, and it _isn’t my fault_!”

Vahl turns to face him. He looks just as he did when they first met, with bright blue eyes and that unruly black hair. There’s a light in his eyes like he’s about to tell the punchline - like he’s about to sweep G’raha off his feet - 

Like he was, before the end.

“My lover,” Vahl murmurs, stepping close. His voice is finally his own. “My hero.”

“Vahl -”

The dream fades before they touch. G’raha wakes gently, blinking slowly up at the blue and gold walls surrounding him. It isn’t peace in his heart, not quite, but some of the guilt shifts, settles, fades - and a new focus replaces it.

Rolling over in bed, G’raha pulls the covers tight around him before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me three months ago, fleshing out plot points: can't wait until we get to the Garleans, that's going to be so much fun to write  
> Me now, 12 chapters in: I am Michael Scott in the middle of a fire drill
> 
> Soooo many thank yous to everyone reading! You're all wonderful and I hope you're doing well.


	13. Away from Safe Harbour

“What a day to take to the skies!”

G’raha shelters beneath the prow of the airship once more, grinning at Derrik as he spins the enormous wheel to the east. The wind whips their hair and clothing but the sun is bright and the sky is clear; smiles abound on all sides as they ascend into the sky. The shield over Eight Sentinels closes behind them soundlessly and they are off, heading towards the once famous kingdom of Ala Mihgo.

The airship is full of different people this time: fewer engineers but more soldiers. Hollwyda had elected to stay - someone, she’d said, had to be responsible for Chalvatot - but she sent a bevy of armed men and women in her place. The Miqo’te twins are among them, and G’raha is doing is best to avoid eye contact with W’cheruh. The machinist is a mystery G’raha cannot devote any attention to - not when they fly further away from the tower by the moment.

On their last adventure the landscape had consumed all of his attention, at least until Kokoju had taken it over with her talk of Vahl and G’raha’s memories of him. Now, sitting alone with his back to the railing, G’raha forces himself to pay attention to his body. His connection to Syrcus Tower is a strange thing he isn’t able to categorize - like a string tied around his finger, it normally lingers without affecting him. He can access it when he needs to - a mental “tug” on the connection allows him to utilize the power stored within - but it is rarely something he focuses on. What few experiments he has had the time to conduct involve the Allagan cubes and attempting to navigate Beta’s new “user-friendly interface” at the command console; he’s avoided analyzing his own body as long as he can.

Now, however, as Gridania’s forests pass underneath them, he notices what he was too distracted to realize the last time: his connection to the tower weakens the further they fly.

It is easy enough to endure at first - awkward if livable - but by the time they are passing the ruins of Old Gridania the weariness is back in full force, pulling at him like a nagging child. He sits with his back against the low wall, closing his eyes even as he fights the temptation to fall asleep.

He is not entirely sure he will wake.

“It’s happening again.”

G’raha opens one eye. W’cheruh kneels at his feet, concern clear in his dark eyes. “I’m fine.”

“And I’m a Viera,” the machinist snorts. “What do you need? Water? Food?”

“Nothing - nothing at all.”

“What can I do?”

G’raha flinches at the tenderness in the other’s voice. Damn him for caring when G’raha cannot - damn him for forcing a connection when G’raha would only cut him off. Sensing that he will not be able to shake this Miqo’te easily, he throws a distraction at him. “Tell me what Gridania looks like.”

W’cheruh stands and moves beside G’raha to look over the edge of the airship. “Green.”

G’raha laughs despite himself. “Ridiculous. Do better than that.”

“I’m serious! Green, as far as the eye can see. Big trees, little trees - leaves, and leaves, and leaves.”

“And the city?”

“Gone,” W’cheruh says, his voice softer than before. “Reclaimed.”

As tired as he is, G’raha drops his head back to look up at the dark-haired Miqo’te. There is a story there - one he senses the machinist would tell if he asked, but asking means taking an interest, and taking an interest with this particular man means more than G’raha intends it to.

Nalza saves him the awkwardness of having to move the conversation forward. As their leading historian regarding all things Allagan she had been chosen to accompany them instead of Kokoju; G’raha is slowly learning to work past the mistrust that her actions below Syrcus Tower had fostered, but he still would have preferred to have Kokoju with them.

“I’ve been reading the journals and datalogs we have regarding Omega,” the Viera says, dropping down on G’raha’s other side to sit beside him. “Much is missing, obviously, but I have some little information here.” She holds a handwritten journal in front of him; the writing is so compact and tight it is nearly impossible to decipher. “Omega is not the only being capable of traversing the rift. As you said yourself, Midgardsormr could do it, and it appears another of the great dragons could as well. Should this prove a dead-end, we may be able to treat with the Elezen and dragons in Dravania.”

“The dragons can open portals?” W’cheruh asks.

“No - they fly from shard to shard.”

G’raha shakes his head fiercely. “I am not riding a dragon, thank you. That is our last and final resort - nothing more.”

“Hrm.” The historian seems disappointed; perhaps she would not mind riding a dragon across a dark, vast space. “I will continue reading.”

W’cheruh waits until the Viera is out of earshot before he takes her place on G’raha’s side. “What do you mean by that? Why would you be riding the dragon through the rift?”

“Ah.” G’raha flinches. Exhaustion muddles his thoughts yet again; he should not have said that. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to put that from your memory?”

“Don’t suppose I would.”

“I thought not.” He frowns, at a loss for where to begin - and entirely unsure if Biggs would even want him to speak. It is not common knowledge that they intend to send the tower back in time; fewer still know that G’raha would be traveling with the tower. He assumes they’ll know eventually, but now does not feel like the time. “Should it be me, my preference for time travel would not be on the back of a dragon.”

“You think they’ll do it?” W’cheruh’s dark eyes are serious. “You think they’ll send someone back in time?”

“They are very, very close,” he admits. 

“What happens to us, then? Someone goes back, saves the Warrior of Light, stops the Calamity - and we just, what? Keep on going? Vanish, as our timeline is erased from history?” He shakes his head. “As hard a life as it is, it’s the only one I have. I’d rather keep living it.”

“Kokoju has a theory,” G’raha says, finding it easier to use the Lalafell’s thoughts than his own. “Our lives would change, as though Vahl had lived and the Calamity had never happened. No one would notice it, or remember the world as it was before: what life you are suddenly living would seem to be the life you’d lived all along.”

“That might be even more unsettling,” W’cheruh mutters.

“I never said I like the idea.”

The machinist drops his head, closing his eyes. Given the chance to watch him, G’raha can’t help noticing the man is younger than he’d thought - younger than G’raha had been when he locked himself in the tower. To be thrown into such a cruel world at that age - to have known nothing else, and be forced to confront the harsh reality of their doomed future even now - is a terrible reality G’raha could not imagine having to endure. 

Not for the first time, G’raha’s hatred for the Ascians rises like bile in his throat. It is impossible to imagine how many lives they have ruined, how many hopes and dreams were destroyed by these strange, powerful creatures playing at godhood. Though he holds them entirely responsible for Vahl’s murder, he is merely one death among billions. 

And for what reason? For what purpose? Anarchy? Annihilation? It is not clear why they are forced to go screaming into oblivion, why civilizations repeatedly topple at the feet of those red-masked murderers.

The scholar in G’raha wants to know why.

The rest of him wants revenge.

“Have they told you anything about these Blues?” W’cheruh asks, cutting through G’raha’s dark thoughts.

He blinks, forcing himself to focus on the present. “Very little.”

The machinist lowers his voice. “Don’t trust them. Don’t wander alone with any of them. Half of them are on somnus and the other half are likely to try to sell you some.”

“Somnus?” An odd, queasy feeling slithers through his stomach, but Derrik’s voice forestalls his questions and drags his attention to the wheel.

“We’re coming in to land! Prepare for the descent!”

G’raha attempts to push himself to his feet, but that damned exhaustion rears its ugly head. As embarrassing as it is, he finds himself accepting W’cheruh’s offered hand to allow the Miqo’te to pull him up.

“Lean on me if you have to,” W’cheruh murmurs as they turn to the railing, watching the tops of the trees come up to meet them.

G’raha bites his tongue. He cannot allow this man to continue thinking they will be anything more than friends, but he _does_ have to lean on him. Without W’cheruh there he doubts he would be able to stand at the railing and watch the land they approach - and quickly his attention is absorbed completely by the massive structure in front of them.

“Baelsar’s Wall?” he murmurs, but then he is ducking his head, hiding along with everyone else from the leaves and twigs thrown about the air by the power of the airship. The sound and wind finally die down as they touch ground and he peaks over his arm, his attention straying from the wall around Gyr Abania to the armed men and women hurrying out from under the trees. Most are what G’raha recognizes as full-blooded Garleans, made obvious by their third eyes, but many other races stand amongst them. All hold blades or bows; some aim pistols in their direction as well. They are disheveled and dirty but far from disorganized; they form ranks along the sides of the clearing efficiently and without any chatter.

“We’re here from the Ironworks!” Derrik shouts, raising his hands in the air. Everyone copies his actions, though G’raha’s fingers remain latched around W’cheruh’s arm. “We’re friendly!”

“Derrik fucking Garlond,” a loud voice drawls. A tall man swaggers out of the crowd, a gunblade resting over one shoulder and his other thumb jabbed through a beltloop. His ginger hair is slicked back, revealing a high widow’s peak over his third eye. “What brings your ass to my front step?”

“You’d shoot it down if I landed anywhere else,” Derrik shouts back. Though his tone is casual, G’raha notices he does not smile. “How about I get off this ship and we have a little chat?”

The man’s narrowed eyes roam across the airship, settling finally on Biggs. “The president himself, come to see little old me!” He spits in the dirt, a scowl twisting his face as he stares at the Roegadyn. “What inspired you to leave your shiny tower?”

“The end of the world, Dominic - like always.” Biggs does not look impressed. “We come to barter.”

“Barter? With me?” The man swings his gunblade around, pointing the sharp end at his own chest. A half-crazed grin slowly blossoms over his thin face. “I’m honoured, President Biggs, but I’m not a fool. Five of you may disembark - no more, understood? I’m not wasting ammunition on scientists.”

Biggs doesn’t hesitate before turning to everyone gathered on the ship. “Myself, Derrik, Hidden Eclipse, G’raha, and W’cheruh. The rest of you stay onboard and be ready to leave as soon as we’re back.”

“That weakness again?” Derrik is suddenly on G’raha’s other side, holding onto his free arm. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He grits his teeth. “Just get me down the gangway.”

It is humiliating and frustrating: Biggs and Hidden Eclipse, a large Roegadyn with tattoos up both sides of her face, descend quickly. Burdened as they are by G’raha, W’cheruh and Derrik move much, much slower. He can hear murmurs and whispers from the Imperials watching, but all of his focus is directed to his feet. Tumbling down the gangway - and bringing Cid Garlond’s heir with him - would be an even more embarrassing entrance. 

By the time he reaches solid ground the Imperial known as Dominic has already led the Roegadyns towards the Wall; the armed men and women remaining watch G’raha and his escorts as they follow. There is little obvious hostility in their eyes, but it is still clear they are not welcome: these survivors do not trust them.

He reminds himself these are the _good_ Imperials, the Imperials that Eight Sentinels has bartered with many times before - but it is hard to discard all of his old stereotypes. A crowd of armed Garleans unsettles him no matter how many times he tells himself they are allies - and W’cheruh’s warning about somnus adds another dark layer of worry. 

They stop at a clearing in front of a massive gate in Baelsar’s Wall; it takes the Imperials little time to open it, permitting them access to the Garlean tunnels within. As curious as G’raha is to see this place, a tour is not forthcoming: Dominic leads them into a small chamber off the dark main room. G’raha quickly claims one of two chairs against the far wall, collapsing into it with the last shreds of his dignity. Derrik sits beside him, his eyes never leaving Dominic.

The Imperial leans against the wall, watching the five people gathered in front of him through narrowed eyes. “Introductions, please - Biggs and Derrik I’m unlucky enough to know, but the three of you are new.”

“Hidden Eclipse, W’cheruh Tia, and G’raha Tia,” Biggs says blandly, barely moving his arm to gesture. He is clearly not impressed by the man’s posturing. “Two soldiers and one mage.”

“Two fit and one feeble.” The man’s pale blue eyes meet G’raha’s. 

“We have to cross the wall, Dominic.” Derrik leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “We’ll be out of your hair in a few hours - we’re going nowhere near the Lochs.”

“What’s across the wall that’s worth playing with me?” Dominic’s eyes stay on G’raha, who stares back at him. The Imperial’s gaze is a challenge he doesn’t want to back down from - but he knows he is not fit to meet it, either.

“Something Cid left behind.”

That aggravates the man, making him grimace and redirect his attention to the mayor. “Always - _always_ \- you’ve talked about Cid. Cid and Nero, plotting to save our silly little lives, as though they aren’t worth living! As though this has all been some kind of mistake!”

“Ah, is _this_ where you truly belong?” Biggs interrupts, his demeanor cool. “Watching a wall while the Reds play in Garlemald?”

Dominic bares his teeth. “For now.” He suddenly turns back to G’raha and gives him a mocking salute. “As for who _I_ am - Dominic sas Cericala. As your president says, I’m in charge of this beautiful stretch of wall.”

“Charmed,” G’raha replies softly. 

Dominic directs his attention back to Biggs. “You aren’t the first guests we’ve had of late. Strange visitors with stranger requests.” He smiles a cool, slow smile. “Visitors with red masks. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about them, would you? Because they are _very_ curious about you.”

G’raha holds his own reaction in check, but some of his exhaustion is instantly replaced by alarm. Shivers race up and down his arms; he clasps his hands around his staff in the hopes of hiding them. 

“What were they curious about?” Derrik asks tensely. 

“Oh, you know.” Dominic picks invisible fluff off his ragged coat, doing his best to stall this revelation. “Gossip, drama, whether I have any idea what you might be planning up north.” His pale eyes slide to G’raha. “If I know about the Allagan Miqo’te in your midst.”

Fear shoots through G’raha like ice, sliding through his veins and wrapping around his lungs. If he has to he can waste one of his cubes to create a shield - but it won’t last nearly long enough, or stretch large enough, for the airship to safely take off. If this man decides to betray them there is little he can do.

“What did you tell them?” Biggs’s voice is tight.

“What could I say?” Dominic says with a shrug. “I knew nothing about you, the north, or strange Miqo’te.”

“And if they return?”

That sly grin spreads until it shows all of his perfect teeth. “That depends on what you have to barter.”

“You threaten us?” Derrik stands. His fists are clenched and his face is red; G’raha wants to tug him back into his chair but there is no way to do so subtly. 

Dominic rolls his eyes. “I have always threatened you, Garlond. We’ve played this game since the day you took over Eight Sentinels. Be a good guest and show me what you’ve got.”

Derrik turns away, anger sparking in his eyes as he works to control his temper. He meets G’raha’s worried gaze. “Fine. G’raha?”

G’raha looks from Derrik, to Biggs, and finally to Dominic. The Imperial pushes himself away from the wall to swagger into the middle of the room; he moves both sides of his coat back to rest his hands on his hips. It’s impossible not to notice the two small pistols holstered at his waist - as if he isn’t threatening enough wearing his gunblade.

G’raha slowly pulls an Allagan cube out of his pocket and holds it in the palm of his crystal hand, allowing the Imperial to see. “We offer you two of these.”

The man’s quick eyes narrow; he jerks his chin forward. “Explain.”

“I am able to bind enchantments into these cubes - specifically, teleportation spells.” G’raha watches the man’s eyes. “These will allow you and your people to cross vast distances quickly.”

“How long will they last?” Greed shines in those eyes, greed and quick understanding. There are less than a dozen aetherytes left for those capable of using them; it is unlikely the Imperials would have any means of quick transportation without relying on what few airships they might still command.

“A few months at least.” Sudden inspiration hits G’raha and he tilts his head to the side. “I could perhaps be convinced to provide more than two - should you be willing to work with us.”

Both Derrik and Biggs do not react subtly; the president’s head whips around before spinning back to watch Dominic, while the mayor actually starts to refuse before cutting himself off.

G’raha keeps his eyes on the Imperial. He’s playing a dangerous game with a dangerous man, but the stakes are too high not to take the risk.

“You have my attention, Allagan Miqo’te,” Dominic says quietly. “Name your terms.”

“Allow us safe passage over the wall - to our destination, and back west. No questions asked, no escorts onboard. Both of us know you have other means of watching where we go.” The Imperial raises an eyebrow but doesn’t deny it. G’raha continues, “Do that, and two cubes are yours. I’ll provide a third if you tell the Ascians you turned down our offer.”

The Imperial’s face is impossible to read. He moves close to G’raha, going so far as to crouch in front of him. It is a move made to embarrass him - a position taken when speaking to children or elders - but G’raha meets his gaze without flinching. 

“And what will you give me not to tell them about the Allagan Miqo’te?” Dominic’s voice is a whisper; his pale eyes never leave G’raha’s. “They are very, _very_ interested in the mage with crimson eyes.”

“Tell them to speak with me themselves should they be so curious.” He cannot keep the snarl out of his voice, nor the snap from his tail. That the Ascians would be curious about him he expects, but to travel to other settlements in the hopes of learning more? To put third parties at risk rather than confront him face-to-face? “They know where to find me.”

Dominic sits back on his heels, clearly taken aback by the ferocity of G’raha’s anger. They stare at each other mutely for a few moments until the Imperial slowly nods. “So be it.” He stands and moves towards the door. “You have until sundown to conduct your business. Leave the cubes with Ava on your way out.” He turns to leave but pauses, shooting one more look Derrik’s way. “Be careful, Garlond. We both know what Ascians are capable of.” 

Silence falls over the five of them as the Imperial slips out the door, closing it gently behind him. It’s clear from Derrik’s expression that he has questions to ask, but now is not the time.

“Work your magic,” he says hoarsely. “And then we’re out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got rather swept up in my writing and only realized the chapter was 6000 words when I went to post it! So here is part one of their journey east, and I'll post the second part next week.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone reading!


	14. Jumped the Gun

The world beyond Baelsar’s Wall is a radical change from the green, vibrant land that once was Gridania. Following the Calamity some of the worst fighting had taken place in Gyr Abania; the remnants of the Eorzean forces entrenched within the Ghimlyt Dark had fought their way home only to encounter more death, more poison, and more madness. There are few records detailing what happened when the survivors realized Black Rose had spread to their homelands, but the state of the blighted, ruined land speaks for itself.

G’raha watches the rocky land pass underneath their airship: the ashen forests and sludging streams, the hulking mass of metal that had once been an enormous outpost bridging the gap between two barren buttresses of washed-out earth. _Something_ had carved a piece out of the center of the bridge, enabling the weight of the Garlean outpost above to drive the rest of it into the watery reaches far below.

Derrik lands the airship not far from the ruined bridge. Their quarry is a gaping hole in the ground: it is perfectly shaped, a circular crater so deep they cannot see the bottom.

Biggs and the engineers set to work excavating, using a system similar to the harness and pulleys they’d set up in the underbelly of Syrcus Tower. G’raha, having no interest whatsoever in descending into those dark depths, sets out to explore. 

“Can’t have you going alone!” W’cheruh is breathless as he catches up to G’raha, shaking his head as though he’s audacious for wandering. “We don’t know what’s out here.”

“ _Nothing_ is out here,” G’raha grumbles, so quietly the young Miqo’te can’t hear. He grudgingly allows him to follow along, knowing Derrik would berate him if he turned down any sort of escort in this wilderness - and feeling more bitter because he knows he’s weak enough to need the help. 

Part of him blames the tower for his condition. There had been no warning when he locked himself in the tower, no instruction manual or indicator that becoming the caretaker might tie his entire being to the tower itself. He had not been aware of the complications that might arise - he hadn’t even _considered_ them! He’d assumed he would go to sleep, wake anew, showcase the tower’s mysteries to whatever civilization woke him, and eventually grow old - as though he’d merely paused his life and would reawaken as the same G’raha Tia he’d been before.

None of this is what he’d wanted. 

As for what he wants now - 

He pauses to catch his breath, leaning heavily on his staff as he stares up at a raised tower of land. Before landing he’d briefly glimpsed a glint of blue at the top of that land, a flash of colour revealing in its oddity.

Of course the damn thing would require them to climb.

W’cheruh hovers like a frightened mother bird, not wanting to rush ahead and leave him, but also not able to help. G’raha will not take the other’s hand, or lean on him, or allow him any kind of touch that reduces G’raha to someone to be cared for.

He will do this on his own, gods willing, and W’cheruh will simply have to live with his worry.

The trek up the pillar is slightly easier than he first believed it would be: a large portion of the inside turns out to be hollow, with a sloping, curled pathway leading to the outcrop high above. G’raha’s exhausted breaths echo off the chamber’s curved walls, filling that small space with embarrassing sound.

Stubborn, Vahl would have called him, stubborn and ox-headed and all manner of other things - but the Warrior of Light would’ve wanted to see what waited above, too. 

Loneliness hits him particularly hard as he steps out onto the outcrop, seeing the remains of an ancient aetheryte and scattered dwellings. The view of the landscape beyond is just as amazing as he thought it would be - Gyr Abania stretching south as far as the eye can see, grey clouds rolling over the dusty land below - but thinking of Vahl’s reaction turns it bittersweet. He has no way of knowing if Vahl ever stood here, but he thinks it likely: if he’d helped Cid with Omega this would be the closest aetheryte. Perhaps he stood in this very spot, considering the battles ahead, the lay of the land, the world below his feet.

Did his thoughts ever turn to the Crystal Tower? Did he ever take a moment to reflect on the love left behind in Eorzea? 

Did he ever feel the same ache in his chest, wishing G’raha could be there to see the world with him?

W’cheruh joins him at the edge of the outcrop, silently staring over what is left of this ancient land. His presence jolts G’raha from his melancholy, reminding him that he came here with a purpose.

“I’m going to test something,” he says, backing up from the ledge. “I’ll need quiet.”

“No shortage of that,” W’cheruh replies with a small grin. “I’ll keep watch.”

G’raha waits until the machinist moves away. Closing his eyes and taking his staff in both hands, he bows his chin to his chest and inhales, sending his mental presence far, far west, following the small mental chain that ties him to Syrcus Tower. It is not an easy thing to do with such distance between them; his concentration wavers, wandering, and he forces himself to focus, to be present in this task. 

“Protect,” he murmurs, holding out his crystal hand. Though he can sense the aether attempting to respond, the distance is too far: no shield appears, even momentarily.

Undaunted and - ultimately - unsurprised, he adjusts his stance. Taking his staff in his right hand, he turns inwards, ignoring the Crystal Tower and its pull completely. It is a simple enough thing to use his own aether to cast. A shield blooms around the outcrop with little effort, appearing just as he finishes waving his staff.

Simple - yet clumsy. He dispels it with another thought and frowns at his staff. He’d never trained as a mage. Before Syrcus Tower he’d believed himself a talented marksman; he had never needed nor wanted to dabble in anything arcane. Rising from his two-century sleep had revealed not only his connection to the tower - and the power within it - but his body’s own capabilities.

He could not have done this before he locked himself in. 

Opening his eyes, he turns to W’cheruh. As simple as a protection spell is, healing is more difficult. In Eight Sentinels he’d let the tower guide him - he had served as a conduit for both power and knowledge, passing through him to those he healed. A rudimentary knowledge of biology and midwives’ training augmented his skills, but he had never trained to heal.

Holding his staff before him, he braces and closes his eyes. His own aether is relatively untapped, making it easy to grasp and pull into his spell. The staff helps channel that power as it focuses to a point _;_ redirecting it towards the machinist is intuitive enough after his previous experiences with magic.

G’raha raises the staff up into the air as he opens his eyes. A gentle green glow focuses around W’cheruh’s chest, suffusing him with calm energy.

“What’s this about?” the machinist asks as he watches the glow fade.

“An experiment,” G’raha says. He grins, proud of that small bit of magic. ”My first time casting without relying on the tower.”

“Dare I ask why?”

“I was not a mage before all of this.” G’raha turns back to the empty expanse below. “What little magic I have done has been with the assistance of the tower - or through its innate guidance and my own intuition. This small spell is the first I’ve cast that is entirely my own.”

“You're doing this because you can’t use the tower all the time - the distance is too far.” The machinist rests back on one heel, crossing his arms over his chest as his black tail snaps back and forth. “That’s why you’re weakened when we fly, isn’t it? Because you’ve left the tower behind.”

Some of G’raha’s elation fades. He’d tried not to put words to it, to avoid the conclusion his evidence points towards, but there is nothing for it: if he is to make the most of this situation he must confront it with honesty. It takes effort not to look down at his crystal hand, but he manages to meet the other Miqo’te’s eyes. “Yes.”

“Damn.”

“Indeed.” It is a strange thing to finally admit - not just to W’cheruh, but to himself. Wherever his future lies - whether it be now in Eight Sentinels, or in the past on the First - he will not be able to stray far from Syrcus Tower. “It appears my adventuring days are at an end.”

W’cheruh frowns, but a sound below them forestalls whatever words he might have said. They both rush to the edge of the outcrop only to scurry back, hands on their weapons. 

“What is _that_?” W’cheruh whispers fiercely, tugging at G’raha’s sleeve in an attempt to force him back. “I thought everything here died!”

“So did I,” G’raha replies quietly, risking another glimpse over the ledge. Far below them is a massive red and black bulbous body, under which is a collection of skittering, sharp-looking legs. Massive pincers jut out of its small, twitching head. “An antlion, I believe.”

“And _what_ is it doing _here_?”

“Resting?” G’raha tilts his head to one side. “I’ve read little about them, but they are native to this part of Eorzea.” Confident the creature does not have wings and cannot scale their rock pillar, he stretches a little over the edge to better see it. “I don’t believe this one is well.”

“It’s alive when it should be dead,” W’cheruh mutters. “Of course it isn’t well.”

“I fear that is the literal problem.” A strange compulsion to go down and touch the creature forces G’raha to give himself a shake - hurt though it might be, attempting to heal the thing would be a new level of foolishness. “See how its skin flakes off of it? And it seems to be missing at least two legs. I doubt it is long for this world, at any rate.”

He senses the Miqo’te’s eyes on him. “Better to put it out of its misery, you think?”

“One might have said the same thing of myself, when first I ventured from my tower.” Though he keeps his tone light, G’raha’s thoughts are anything but. “It is either the first of its kind, and therefore fighting hard for each step, or it is the last - and I, for one, am not prepared to doom an entire species out of hand. _We_ are the trespassers here, remember.”

“For now.” Bitterness twists W’cheruh’s words. “This was someone’s _home_. People lived here - worked here!” G’raha hears him spit in the dirt. “Probably died here, too.”

“W’cheruh…”

“It doesn’t matter, does it? It doesn’t matter that this is an open graveyard, that monsters live where people used to, that everything out here is dead and dust - none of it matters because we’re sending someone to the past to erase all of this. Who cares if the Reds or the Blues take Garlemald? Who cares about trade agreements with other cities, or rebuilding Gridania, or making a future for any of us? No one gives a damn about any of that because if the Ironworks succeeds then this entire world will cease to exist!”

G’raha sees the pistol aimed downwards and reacts automatically, flinging himself towards the machinist. His hands wrap around the barrel and push upwards just as W’cheruh fires; the bullet flies high, missing the red-and-black creature below them. A _bang_ echoes across Gyr Abania, repeating over and over and over before finally fading to silence. Distantly they hear the sound of dirt moving as the antlion buries itself below ground.

The weight of the pistol is suddenly entirely in G’raha’s hands as W’cheruh lets go of it and backs away, covering his face with his hands. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, his voice muffled. “That wasn’t - I don’t know what came over me -”

“I am aware of what you don’t know,” G’raha says quietly. He stares at the warm gun in his hands, a sickly feeling tickling his throat. “Just as I am aware of how lucky we are that you missed. I doubt it would have fled had you actually hit it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“G’raha? Was that you?”

He makes a face and puts a finger to his ear, hearing Derrik’s concerned voice over his linkpearl. “W’cheruh scared off an antlion.”

“An _antlion_? By the twelve, you’re lucky it didn’t ambush you! I’ll send a few of Hollwyda’s boys your way.”

“No, you don’t -” The sound crackles out and G’raha sighs as he drops his arm to his side. Knowing they don’t have much time before others join them, G’raha drops the pistol to take both of W’cheruh’s shoulders in his hands. “ _You are wrong_. This world _does_ matter, and your people _do_ care. There is no point in living as though the worst-case scenario is inevitable until you can prove it irrefutably - and I _know_ you do not have that kind of proof.”

The Miqo’te refuses to look him in the eye. “What if it isn’t about worst-case scenarios? What if it’s about wasting your life chasing something you can never have?”

G’raha lets go of him and back up a few steps, suddenly feeling his age - his _true_ age, centuries of slumber included. “Whatever it is you want would have been much further away had I died to that antlion.” He bends to snatch up the pistol and tosses it back to W’cheruh, attempting to ignore the man’s stricken expression. “Come on. I’m sure we all want to be gone from here before the Imperials decide to change their minds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orcus definitely gets the trophy for My Least-Favourite Hunt...it felt only right that it, of all things, would survive an apocolypse.


	15. For Science!

“Your final test, G’raha!”

He crosses his arms over his chest. Chalvatot’s love of theatrics has overflowed into his application of science; with bright skies, warm spring weather, and the distant sounds of birdsong it is the perfect day to sit back and take in a show.

Alas that G’raha _is_ the show.

Chalvatot stands a few yalms away, hands on his hips as he looks back and forth between G’raha and the lucky “chosen” who’ve been helping them with the day’s experiment. Once the Elezen had realized that passersby found it interesting to watch he’d moved them to a public location and devised more complicated means of testing. What had started as an innocent experiment had become a veritable one-man contest.

“First!” Chalvatot gestures to his left. Kokoju stands a few fulms away, a smirk on her face signaling she, at least, is enjoying the afternoon. “You will teleport this diminutive subject from here to yourself!”

G’raha raises an eyebrow. “Back to the basics, aren’t we?”

Chalvatot ignores him. “Second! You will teleport this sturdy subject over here!” He turns to his right, where Biggs stands ringed by engineers. The Roegadyn is trying to be stoic; he understands the Duskwright’s enthusiasm better than anyone and knows the results are worth the embarrassment. “And I mean only the _one_ subect! Those surrounding him are not to be teleported!”

The four engineers huddle closer to Biggs, grinning mercilessly at his discomfort. 

“And finally!” Chalvatot turns back to G’raha, whipping his hand over his head with a flourish. “Somewhere in Eight Sentinels resides our final subject: our much-beloved Captain of the Guard! You will teleport her here as well!”

G’raha sucks his teeth with his tongue. Of all the experiments they’d conducted so far, teleporting someone he cannot see has been the most difficult. “What’s my reward for success?”

Chalvatot tilts his head downwards, glaring at him over the top of his spectacles. “Your prize will be my continued assistance and support.”

“Wonderful.” G’raha turns to Kokoju. She has been his partner in this experiment all afternoon; they are both well-accustomed to this process. He barely has to think about it - reaching out his crystal hand as his aether connects with Syrcus Tower, and then _reaches_ \- 

Kokoju stumbles backwards as her forehead bumps G’raha’s hip. Their audience laughs and applauds; no one had expected him to fail this first round.

“Next,” she says, grinning as she moves out of the way.

Teleporting one person from a crowd is more difficult; G’raha has brought the wrong person half as often as he’s brought the right one. He focuses on Biggs’s aether, attempting to separate the Roegadyn from those surrounding him even before he reaches, but the distance blurs the edges: he feels rather like he’s trying to choose while blindfolded. Picking the one he wants is both complicated and frustrating as the aether shifts, stirs, shimmers - it is not the static substance he wishes it was. Finally there is a moment of certainty - a second where his own aether connects with the aether he associates with Biggs - and again he _reaches_.

Even Chalvatot laughs as G’raha stumbles, finding himself pushed forward by a sudden force at his back. He spins around to find Biggs standing behind him, staring up at the tower with his hands on his hips.

“I’ll count that as a success!” the Elezen shouts.

“I’ve never done that before.” G’raha slides back to his original position, grinning at the president as the other man turns around. “But it worked!”

“Better behind you than on top, I suppose,” Biggs mutters before following Kokoju off to the side.

“And now for the last step!” 

All eyes return to G’raha as he shakes out his hands. It has been an intensely frustrating endeavour when it comes to teleporting a person he cannot see. More often than not he teleports no one at all, or drags in the closest unsuspecting body; only twice has he teleported the person he intended to - and he suspects both times were more likely flukes than anything he can replicate on purpose.

Closing his eyes, he again calls on Syrcus Tower. Searching for a specific person in the cramped, cluttered streets of Eight Sentinels is aggravating: he may as well be plucking a single grain of rice with yalm-long chopsticks. He directs his attention towards Hollwyda’s home, but separating her aether from those around her is a mess. Everything feels the same at this distance; the longer he waits the more he drains his own power, the more frustrated he becomes, and the sloppier the results - 

G’raha finally makes a choice and _pulls_ , certain he has at least only teleported one person. Laughter breaks out all around him, joined by jeers and whistles, and he opens his eyes.

Derrik stands in front of him, a wooden spoon in one hand and an old plaid apron tied around his waist. He stares at the crowd with a bemused smile, as though he’s game for the joke the moment someone lets him in on it.

“Ah,” G’raha says, dropping his hand. “You aren’t who I wanted.”

“Rude.” Derrik turns to Chalvatot. “I suppose this has something to do with the experiment Hollwyda mentioned, eh?”

“Clearly it did not go to plan,” the Duskwight murmurs. He snaps his glasses off his nose and absentmindedly wipes at the lenses with his shirt, muttering under his breath as he glares at the ground. “There has to be a way around this!”

“Perhaps a designated teleport spot?” Biggs suggests. He remembers the watching crowd and makes a shooing motion in their direction. “That’s enough for the day! Get on with your evenings!” A few groans of disappointment follow his announcement, but slowly the area in front of Syrcus Tower begins to empty.

“Like an aetheryte?” Chalvatot pops his glasses back on; a frown etches deep lines into his forehead as he stares at G’raha. “Would that work?”

“Perhaps? It would need to be something I recognize.” G’raha shrugs, at a loss for how to accurately describe his issue to someone who cannot experience it firsthand. “The problem is differentiating between multiple people. Even when they’re directly in front of me it would be much easier to teleport the entire group rather than single out one person, but when you expand the distance it is almost impossible to discern who is who.”

“So to teleport Vahl from a distance…”

“It’s unlikely I’d teleport him at all,” G’raha finishes the thought. He slouches, resignation deflating the energy he’d had moments earlier. “That’s even assuming I know where he is.”

“We would know,” Kokoju argues. “Everything he did was recorded! We would only have to find the right history to track his movements.” She raises her hands in frustration as everyone gapes at her. “Really - sometimes you lot only think about your machines and your tests. You need to get your heads back into books!”

“That’s something Nalza would say,” Chalvatot mutters.

“ _Hrm_.” Kokoju’s impression of the Viera’s disapproving glare and grunt is startling in its accuracy, though ridiculous coming from a Lalafell. She drops the look and shrugs. “Tell me what time you want to summon him from and I’ll tell you where he was.”

G’raha gapes at her as it suddenly dawns on him that he knows very little about Vahl’s life after Syrcus Tower. Knowing he spent time in Ishgard and Doma is not the same as knowing details. He turns to Biggs and Derrik, who both shrug. 

“We’ll do some reading,” the Roegadyn says. “Some of us will, anyway - I want G’raha to practice this teleportation magic.” He pauses and glances down at Derrik. “Isn’t Hollwyda wondering where you are?”

Derrik suddenly focuses on the wooden spoon in his hand and a look of horror spreads over his face. “My dinner!” he yelps, turning on his heel to sprint home.

“I think I’ll eat at the mess hall tonight,” Chalvatot grumbles as he watches the mayor run to the house they share. “Anyone care to join me?”

“Dolala and I will,” Kokoju says, grinning up at the Duskwight. “She’s been looking for an excuse to pick your brain.”

Biggs declines and bids them goodnight, but G’raha joins the others. Meals alone in his tower have become relics of the past: when he isn’t dining with Derrik and Hollwyda he is welcome with the Ironworks employees in their communal space. In truth he has become a member of the Ironworks in all but name; it is strange to consider that he has been in Eight Sentinels longer than he had Saint Coinach’s Find. From a fish out of water to a veritable part of the family, G’raha never thought he’d find _this_ at the end of the world.

The most jarring aspect of this home and these friends is the knowledge it is temporary. There will come a time when he will leave, gods willing: this plan will come to fruition and he will find himself on the First, attempting to save two worlds at the same time. Whether he succeeds or not does not matter: no one expects him to return to this timeline.

G’raha tries not to think about it. Through testing and reading and assisting with the build of the new colossus he finds welcome distractions, but when he stops to consider his role in this plan every action becomes bittersweet. He has taken to spending as much time with his friends as possible; who knows when their last day together will come? 

Spontaneously locking himself in Syrcus Tower was far easier than this long, drawn-out goodbye.

Dolala and Chalvatot’s wife Clechette join them in the Ironworks’ dining lodge; their quintet takes a table in a corner of the large room. Any awkwardness over being the odd man out vanishes when Dolala pats the bench beside her and gives G’raha a wink, inviting him to join their side.

“I’m sorry I missed the show,” the Lalafell says. Dolala has grease marks across her olive skin and a wrench tied in one of her black pigtails, looking completely at-odds with her wife’s clean, bright-coloured appearance. Heavy goggles cover her forehead and silver hoops decorate both ears. “Any theories?”

“A few,” Chalvatot replies, crossing his arms on the table and resting his forehead on top of them. “Alas for our lack of an aetheryte.”

Clechette rolls her eyes at her husband. An older Duskwight with salt-and-pepper hair, she is almost as sociable as her husband, though her work as a botanist rarely brings her in contact with Ironworks business. “Think _around_ the problem.” She looks at the others as she slides back out from the bench. “I’ll grab us food. Any requests?”

“Wine?” Dolala says hopefully. “Sweet pies? Anything other than dodo and popoto?”

The Duskwight rolls her eyes again and walks to the long, low counter at the far end of the room, waving her hand to friends as she passes. The room is only half-full; with the turn in seasons a large amount of Ironworks employees have taken to dining outside.

“One day we’ll have wine again,” Dolala grumbles, propping up her chin on her hands. Even with the tables lowered, both her and Kokoju can just barely get their elbows over the top. 

“Wake me when that day comes,” Chalvatot says, his voice muffled behind his arms.

Kokoju sits up straight, looking over Dolala’s pigtails to G’raha. “I think today went well. No one expected you to do everything perfectly on your first try.”

“Except me,” he says quietly. He cannot shake the feeling that his inability to complete that third task will have repercussions in the future. “I’ll keep working on it.”

“And we’ll help!” Kokoju elbows her wife. “I think we’re on the right track with having something like an aetheryte - but ‘like an aetheryte’ has a wide range of possibilities.”

“Not that wide,” Dolala argues. Her sorrow over the lack of wine evaporates with this new puzzle to focus on. “You need something you can attune to - that narrows it down.”

“Like my Allagan cubes?” G’raha pulls one from his pocket, only to have Dolala grab it from him to study. She pulls down her goggles, hiding her large blue eyes behind massive green lenses, and turns a small dial on her frames round and round as she studies the cube.

“No,” she replies eventually, handing over the cube as she pushes her goggles back up her forehead. “What you do with these isn’t ‘attuning’ in the way we need.”

Kokoju elbows her again. “Could you _make_ whatever it is we need?”

“A travel-size aetheryte?” Dolala frowns, but perks up the moment she sees Clechette returning with a tray full of bowls. “I’ll doodle some blueprints.”

Kokoju again peaks over her wife’s head, her yellow eyes glinting with good humour. “What she really means by that is ‘I’ll fill our entire room with drawings for the next three months’. She’s something of a tinkerer.”

“She’s my best tinkerer,” Chalvatot adds. He rouses to help pass out food before settling in beside his wife. “Thank you, lovely.” A chorus of gratitude follows from everyone at the table, to which Clechette waves her hands dismissively. 

“Nevermind that,” she says, leaning over her soup to focus on the historian. “What’s this I hear about researching the Warrior of Light?”

“If we’re pulling him to the First we need to decide _when_ we find him,” Kokoju replies, absentmindedly tapping her spoon against her bowl as she stares at the table. “I would think we’d need to find him at his most powerful, but it may come down to tracing his last-known location. Nalza and I will scour some texts over the next few days to narrow it down.”

“I suppose teleporting him from the last time G’raha saw him would be too early, hmm?”

The Lalafell shakes her head. “Far too early. My initial thought was during the Dragonsong War, but the last thing I want to do is remove him when they really need him.”

“Wouldn’t that be a disaster!” Chalvatot moans. “Try to save the world and end up leaving Nidhogg alive instead!”

“Exactly. The issue then is finding texts or histories recording the Warrior’s movement when he _wasn’t_ busy saving the world.” Kokoju makes a face. “No one writes about the time _between_ , unfortunately - at least, no one I’ve found.” 

“What was that author mentioned in the text you showed me?” G’raha had nearly inhaled his own meal, distracted as he is by the conversation and its possibilities. “The one recording the Dragonsong War?”

“Ah, the Count of House Fortemps?” The historian manages to slouch and stare dreamily off into the distance simultaneously. “Imagine finding a copy of _Heavensward_! I think I’d die happy.”

“She would,” Dolala adds offhandedly. “She talks about that book more than she does me.”

“It isn’t just a _book_ \- it’s the history of our world! Ishgard and Dravania and Ascians, with the Warrior thrown into the middle! I was hoping the Waking Sands would have a copy, but I couldn’t find one.”

“Where else might one be?” G’raha asks. While a part of him wants to find the book to help them narrow down their search for the Warrior in time, he knows a large part of his desire is helpless curiosity. He’s heard an overview of the Dragonsong War and how Vahl had played a crucial part in its resolution, but to read an actual account from someone who lived through it? Who witnessed much of it firsthand, and knew Vahl personally? He imagines he’d be right there with Kokoju, fighting to devour every word as quickly as he could.

“Ishgard, one imagines,” Chalvatot replies without looking up. “Possibly Dravania.”

G’raha catches Kokoju’s eye and raises his eyebrows, but the energy drains out of her and she shakes her head. She cannot picture them taking the risk.

G’raha, on the other hand...

“Thank you for the company,” G’raha says suddenly, sliding up and out from the bench. “I just realized I’m late for a meeting. Have a great evening!” He glimpses the look in Chalvatot’s eyes as he hurries out of the dining area and into the crisp evening air, but he isn’t about to be discouraged by one Elezen.

He finds Derrik sitting on the steps to his front porch, a mug of ale in one hand and a flyswatter in the other. Even as G’raha rushes forward he watches the Hyur lash out with the small stick and paddle, whipping the contraption around his head as he attempts to sip his drink.

“Spring in Mor Dhona is a crock of shit,” he says pleasantly when he notices G’raha approach. “If it isn’t flooding roads, it’s midges and mosquitoes from the swamp.” He drops the flyswatter and slaps his hand across his cheek, pulling it back with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Ha! Bastard. No one bites me but my wife.” He wipes his hand on the wooden railing beside him before turning his full attention to G’raha. “You here to teleport me again?”

“Not today, no.” G’raha takes a deep breath before throwing caution to the wind. “Do you have contacts in Dravania?”

Derrik’s green eyes widen. He stares blankly at G’raha for a moment, clearly shocked into silence, until he flinches and slaps at his chin. “Bastard bugs,” he mutters, glaring at his empty palm. “Dravania, eh? What’s a cat like you want from a place like that?”

“Possibilities,” G’raha says, watching the man closely. “The answer Kokoju might need to find the Warrior of Light.”

“Damn if you don’t swing big,” Derrik says with a wince. He puts his mug down and clasps his hands together, directing all his attention to G’raha. “We do have contacts in Dravania. Been a mighty long time since we touched base in person, but if you’re looking to make this into an expedition…”

“I am.”

“Was worried you’d say that.” The Hyur mutters under his breath, scratching at the back of his cap until he finally sighs. “I’ll talk to Hollwyda and Biggs tomorrow. Can’t make any promises though, cat - Dravania is contested territory. And -” He hesitates before shaking his head. “Nevermind. I don’t want to know.”

G’raha knows what question is on the mayor’s mind, but he gives him the benefit of avoiding that topic for now. While G’raha hopes they’ll be able to find what they need from the Elezen to the northwest, he suspects the answer they seek lies in Ishgard - 

And he will delay forcing Derrik to confront that truth as long as he possibly can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is established canon that Biggs and G'raha went to Ishgard in the middle of a war for the purpose of finding a copy of Heavensward. It sounds ridiculous but it _is_ canon. What absolute mad lads.
> 
> Hope you like ridiculously long French names cause you're about to get a bunch of them!


	16. Come From the Land of the Ice and Snow

There’s a bow in his hands and a quiver on his back, but his fingers are frigid and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do once he runs out of arrows. It’s cold and it’s dark and he keeps telling himself _he_ got himself into this mess, _he_ proposed this damned plan, _he_ drove them north and decided the prize worth any risk - 

Yet it’s _excitement_ charging through his veins! It may be his most reckless decision since locking himself in an ancient, magical tower, but damn if it isn’t freeing!

G’raha draws two fingers down the length of his bowstring, reveling in the oh-so-familiar feel of a weapon in his hands, and turns his attention to the men and women beside him. Archers, bards, machinists, gunbreakers, and even the odd arcanist: it is a veritable horde of people ready to deal death at a distance, all lined up near the edge of a cliff overlooking Falcon’s Nest. W’cheruh and his twin are not far away, huddled between groups of Elezen; G’raha nods to them but keeps his eyes roaming down the edge of the cliff. Most of the fighters are Elezen, wearing fur-trimmed hoods and thick, padded coats, but there are a few bright spots of blue-and-white Ironworks colour in between. Nalza is near the end of the row, her codex open in both hands as she skims the pages.

G’raha risks a glance over the edge of the cliff. Falcon’s Nest lies directly below them, laid out in a bulky square of stone and iron situated between the mountain they’re on and a steep drop. Dim orange lights beckon faintly through the blowing snow; small panels of glass mute the glow of warm hearths kept indoors. Imperial technology glows much brighter: the Reds have modified the Elezen buildings with neon magitek lights. The massive tower to the north of the outpost sports a blinding spotlight at the very top; G’raha knows that once upon a time a flame burned at the very top, but the Imperials have clearly done away with something so rudimentary as fire. The spotlight is no match for nature, however; the blizzard and night’s blanket of darkness work in tandem to mask everything on the ground.

If there are guards on the walls - who have not had the ill fortune to freeze to death - they cannot see a thing, because G’raha cannot see them, either. 

Perhaps it is a foolish idea to launch an attack during a blizzard - but the Elezen they have joined forces with picked the time. Biggs and Derrik know better than to argue.

They have been in Coerthas for a week. Freezing, frozen, frigid Coerthas: a land of perpetual winter, locked between the murky, mucky swamps of Mor Dhona and the milder forests of Dravania, it is quite possibly G’raha’s least favourite place. There may be beauty in the jagged cliffs and frozen dragons and pools of rainbow-tinted water, but it is a beauty like to kill a man who pauses to admire it. In the centuries since the Calamity the wildlife has taken over everything that remains: bears, wild dogs, and even more dangerous creatures have managed to flourish in a land devoid of civilization.

They are here on a hunt for _Heavensward_ , pulled north in the hopes of finding history’s longest text dedicated to Vahl. While the Elezen in Dravania had been pleased to have news from the south, they did not have a copy of the fabled book. Rather than send the southerners home empty-handed the four Elezen in charge had put forth a proposal: help them take back Ishgard, and they’ll guarantee G’raha access to what remains of Fortemps Manor.

Calling it a long shot is an understatement, but G’raha had left the decision-making entirely to Biggs, Derrik, and Hollwyda. Though the Captain would not leave Eight Sentinels, Derrik had spent two days ferrying a bevy of her soldiers north.

Against rhyme and reason all three of them had decided to take the Elezen’s offer.

“Wind’s dying down,” the Elezen next to G’raha murmurs. Leonarde is a grizzled, scarred machinist with a perpetual shadow of a beard, no matter the time of day; he’d been assigned to lead the ranged company. “We’re about to lose our cover.”

“Are the ground troops close?”

The Elezen snorts. “Ground troops? Allagan, it isn’t the _ground troops_ we’re waiting on.”

“Then what -”

He senses it, rather than sees it: a massive shape zooms overhead, a dark body with wings beating hard against the constant onslaught of wind and snow. He gapes as he tilts his head back to watch more and more dragons soar over their line of fighters - and then the moment of wonder ends as they unleash fire on the outpost below.

“Pick your targets!” Leonarde bellows past G’raha. “One arrow, one body! One bullet, one body! Arcanists, I want poison, I want miasma, I want a horde of glowing carbuncles! Give them _everything_!”

G’raha knocks an arrow and squints. Hard to _find_ a body in between the snow and the smoke and the general sense of panic, let alone aim at it: someone set off the alarum, sending a blaring, repeating burst of sound across the entire outpost. Voices distantly reach them in the small breaks between the alarm, shouts of panic and hastily-given orders. Fire spreads quickly along the thatched roofs of the lower buildings and someone, somewhere, is screaming.

There - a body.

A target.

G’raha sights, draws, and fires. A high-pitched shriek from below and then an Imperial tumbles from the battlements.

Reflexes take over. G’raha loses track of time as his focus narrows to the bow in his hands and the enemy below him, and suddenly he is G’raha as he was two centuries ago: confident and eager, with quick reflexes and single-minded focus on his task. He is not quite as fast as he was, and his muscles tire earlier than he expects them to, but it feels good to have a simple weapon in his hands again. 

The sounds of battle reach him: guns and spells and the constant roar of dragons, with an undercurrent of metal against metal and human voices. He can barely hear from the blasts of the machinists and gunbreakers near him; his ears are pressed close to his skull but the gunfire is still deafening. 

In the midst of it all the dragons suddenly peel off, disappearing into the heavy clouds above them.

“Ground troops moving in!” Leonarde shouts, and the call is repeated and carried down the line. They’ll be more cautious with their targets now, doing their utmost to avoid friendly fire, but G’raha knows their troops will focus on the north and east sides of the outpost, leaving the western side to Leonarde’s company.

“I didn’t think you still knew which way to aim that!”

G’raha grins as W’cheruh maneuvers himself closer, squeezing in on his left side. The machinist had managed to barter for a ridiculously furry hood; only his eyes are visible beyond the massive white tufts of fur encircling his face. “Look at you, making jokes on a battlefield!”

“Have to keep this light somehow!” W’cheruh aims his pistol, closing one eye, and fires. 

G’raha doesn’t bother to see if the bullet hits, instead focusing on his own targets. Imperials swarm past them, running for the north side of the outpost. The saying, “like shooting trout in a barrel” comes to mind as G’raha lets fly arrow after arrow. Some of his targets keep running, shafts sticking out of armor or chainmail, but many more fall and stay down. He can barely make out the small shapes of bright carbuncles along the battlements; the majority glow bright emerald green. Nalza is the only arcanist using a ruby carbuncle, ordering it this way and that like a naval commander moving her troops. G’raha is just close enough to see her fingers linger over her codex, tracing incantations as she casts.

“Magitek! Magitek on the wall!”

He glances about quickly, trying to find the source, but the sound of a cannon firing warns him it doesn’t matter _where_ their enemy is. Letting his bow fall to the ground, G’raha throws his hands wide above him and channels aether _out_ \- a missile detonates against his shimmering protective dome just as it forms over the entire company of ranged troops. Silence follows; G’raha can sense heads turning his way but cannot take his attention off the shield to look. Without the power of Syrcus Tower to draw on it is exhausting to hold so large a shield for any length of time, but the second he hears another _boom_ from below he knows the effort is worth it. A second missile explodes over his barrier and he drops to one knee, groaning.

“Take out the cannon!” Leonarde screams into his linkpearl. “The cannon to the south - you’ll lose all of us if you don’t!” He surges past G’raha, pointing wildly down below as he runs down the line. “Redirect! Kill the cannoneer! Shoot him now!”

Though G'raha can sense a flurry of activity around him he cannot spare the energy to turn his head; he closes his eyes as more and more of his energy drains into the shield. The third burst against his shield draws even more aether from his reserves and he shudders as his head swims; lethargy threatens to claim him.

“Just a little bit longer, G’raha! Just a little longer!”

Breath hot in his lungs, burning as his chest heaves in and out; ground cold against his knee even through his trousers; sweat pouring down his forehead, matting his red hair against his skin; time slows to milliseconds as holding the shield becomes his only focus. A fourth _boom_ echoes across space and G’raha winces in anticipation, before - 

“Let me, Allagan.”

A chime of sound and then the entire area glows blue - he forces his head up in time to see a regal-looking Elezen thrust her arms out to either side and tilt her head back; though an eyepatch covers one eye her face has a look of pure bliss. A massive blue dome instantly covers his smaller barrier, radiating aether outwards as the Elezen lifts slightly off the ground with the force of her magic. The missile explodes against her new shield and G’raha lets his dissipate; the relief is immediate, though his lethargy does not fade completely. 

Moments later the ground shakes as a massive explosion reverberates through the stone itself; G’raha ducks his head as hot air zooms past him. The Elezen drops her shield and takes a step back, coughing as dust and smoke rolls over their mountainside. 

“Got him! Direct hit! Kudos to whichever one of you bastards went for the fuel line -”

Leonarde’s voice fades as W’cheruh reaches down to grab G’raha and drag him to his feet. The machinist wears his familiar grin even with soot smudged across his face. 

“Show off,” he says as he wipes the dust off G’raha’s heavy coat. 

“Somebody had to save your ass,” G’raha retorts, before his attention is captured by the astrologian who’d covered for him. He salutes her, earning the smallest smile of approval before she turns to walk down the line towards Leonarde.

“One of the big four, isn’t she?” 

“Count Victoire Dzemael,” G’raha replies quietly. The grey-haired Elezen had not been polite to the travelers from the south, but he hadn’t had a chance to speak with her directly. He frowns and looks around them. “The snow?”

“Slowed down while you were having a bit of a sit-down. By the look of it we’re almost done here, too.”

G’raha pulls himself over the edge of the cliff to look at what remains of Falcon’s Nest. Half of the buildings are still smoldering while one shed to the east is full-on blazing; most of the bodies moving about are either wearing Ironworks blue-and-white or the full armour favoured by the Elezen. Sparking wires and blue-flaming fuel lines lead to a massive crater on the southern wall: it is the last remnants of the magitek cannon that had almost annihilated them.

“I figured the fuel line would make some pretty sights, but not like that.”

G’raha raises an eyebrow. “ _You_ stopped the cannon?”

W’cheruh shrugs. “Couldn’t help you shield, could I? Had to do something.” 

“Nicely done,” G’raha murmurs, looking back at the mess of melted metal below them and feeling more than a touch uneasy. “Better them than us.”

“Damn right.” The machinist claps him on the back, letting his hand linger a moment longer than necessary before leaving G’raha to help his twin further down the line.

G’raha knows he should be happy - they lived! They’re in Falcon’s Nest! Not a single ranged fighter died! - but that lingering touch siphons some of his joy. Attempting to stamp down his feelings of unease, G’raha turns to follow Victoire down the back of the mountain.

*

Entering the smouldering, magitek-encrusted remains of Falcon’s Nest is a sobering moment. Fires throw strange shadows against blackened walls disappearing into night’s darkness; groups of Elezen run back and forth, their metal armour clanking as they pass. Some escort healers or carry the wounded closer to aid, but G’raha cannot be bothered to discern what the rest are doing. 

Falcon’s Nest was never his goal. Whatever their plans are for the place he does not care.

He finds Biggs and his engineers at the base of the north tower. They are already investigating the machinery left behind, attempting to override some of the locked doors and disable any defensive turrets still active, but Biggs turns aside from the massive control panel the moment he sees G’raha. 

“Our lucky Allagan!” The Roegadyn is all smiles even through a layer of soot; his goggles hide his eyes and give him the appearance of a mad scientist - which, G’raha reasons, isn’t entirely inaccurate. “We heard about that stunt up there! You saved a lot of lives!”

“Myself and Count Victoire saved lives,” G’raha corrects him.

“Hrm.” Nalza joins them, having followed along behind G’raha. “Nice of her to arrive at the very end.” The Viera, lacking proper winter gear of her own, had taken shears to a hat and forced the poor thing over her head; the wool had begun to unravel around the ear holes. 

“Better at the end than never.” Biggs looks uneasy and immediately changes topics. “Aren’t we happy we lived? Not a single casualty out of Eight Sentinels!”

“And the Elezen?”

The Roegadyn winces as another troop of armoured Elezen clank past them. “At least two dead and several suffering severe burns. I take it they were attempting to reach that cannon that had your lot pinned down, but…”

G’raha swallows as his stomach shifts. He doesn't want to think about what flaming fuel could do to a body. “I assume the commander is alive.”

“Oh, yes - could hear him shouting about pride and duty and fury, or something of the sort.”

“ _The_ Fury,” Nalza corrects him. “Their goddess.”

Biggs waves a hand dismissively. “Yes, of course. He’s in there somewhere - probably wherever Victoire is.”

G’raha redirects his attention to the outpost around him. It is layered, with two large ramps leading up to the main airstrip at the far south reach of land; the buildings form a sort of horseshoe shape leaving a gap for the tower on the northern side. Everything to the south is scorched black, though little is on fire: by this point most of the metal has burnt and twisted into lumpy, shapeless messes while the wood has turned to ash. Stone shells are all that still stand, though they do stand tall - one wall in particular catches G’raha’s eye, and he leaves the others behind as he carefully makes his way up the ramps to the southern wall. 

High above the gateway leading to the airstrip is one of the few pieces that seems to have survived relatively damage-free: art chiseled from stone, depicting Elezen and dragon entwined together. Clearly a relic of a happier age - but it was inevitably a precursor to what exists now. G’raha knows some of this history; he knows how long Dravania and Ishgard were at war. If they had not resolved their differences would the Elezen have survived this long? Where would they have gone to ground if the dragons had not offered the Forelands?

If Nidhogg hadn’t died, would Black Rose have ended both their warring factions?

“You like it, too?”

G’raha shifts, startled from his thoughts by a surprisingly-high voice behind him. He discovers two strangers behind him: a lance-wielding Elezen and a tiny flying wyvern - so small, in fact, that it could easily perch on the Elezen’s shoulder.

“I beg your pardon?” 

“We like this piece,” the little wyvern says, bobbing it’s small blue head in the direction of the chiseled stone. “We’re glad it was not destroyed.”

“I agree,” G’raha says slowly, shifting his stare between the creature and the silent dragoon in front of him. Blood splatters across the dragoon’s purple armour render him a murky, mottled rust colour, but it is impossible to see his face beneath his large curved helm. “My apologies, but whom do I address?”

The little wyvern does a loop in mid-air, apparently pleased by the question. “You have the honour of addressing Ohl Rheia and her esteemed Azure Dragoon, Count Rhongomiant Fortemps! Bow!”

“Ohl Rheia…” The dragoon’s voice is a low, warning growl.

“Bow, _please_!”

“ _No_ -”

G’raha swallows his laughter and bows in spite of the Elezen’s protests. “It is an honour, Ser Rhongomiant.”

The man actually cringes, visibly pulling back as he turns aside. “I am sorry we disturbed you. Come, Ohl Rheia.”

“But this is the Allagan!” If the wyvern had hands G’raha has no doubts she would be tugging at the Elezen’s arms. “This is the one from the past - the one who walked with the Warrior of Light!”

“Then no doubt he is tired of the attention,” the dragoon snaps. “We are leaving.”

The wyvern flaps in mid-air for a few moments more, watching the man stride down the ramps towards the northern exit, before muttering, “ _He_ is not the one who is tired of attention.” Her blue head swivels back to G’raha; her eyes are dark pools reflecting torch-light. “We shall see you again, Allagan.”

Bewildered and out of his element, G’raha can only watch the odd duo depart in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been called back into work next week, so if updates become irregular I apologize! Keep safe out there, and thank you for reading!


	17. Exiles Looking Back

The mood in the northern settlements changes drastically after their victory at Falcon’s Nest. People who had long been forced to restrict their movements to skirmishes and hit-and-run tactics suddenly discover they _can_ win a full-on assault. 

Ishgard no longer seems insurmountable. 

For his part G’raha is eager to move forward, but the plan for this next attack requires more than a few days’ worth of deliberations. The Counts and their militia leaders - including a number of dragons - sequester themselves to the northeast of the Dravanian Forelands in a place called Iron Feast, but the majority of the travellers from Eight Sentinels are provided lodgings in Tailfeather.

It is immediately apparent that Tailfeather is a village overrun: tents and makeshift shelters pour out of the natural rocky borders surrounding the original homes and shattered aetheryte. Roads do not exist: the land is mud and dirt trampled beneath hundreds of bare feet for decades upon decades. Chocobos roam through the camp with children all around them. A smell lingers over the place - a combination of unwashed bodies, and a too-near latrine, and smoke from cookfires combining into a persistent, impossible-to-ignore stench. Dirty Elezen stare at the newcomers with mistrust and hatred in their eyes, pulling children out of reach and holding makeshift weapons closer. The tents themselves are old and threadbare; some have fallen into the muck and remain as testaments to whoever had abandoned them.

Walking through the crowds of refugees had unsettled everyone, G’raha most of all. Legends of proud Ishgardians, and what little he’d seen of their militia in Coerthas, had not prepared him for the harsh reality of a shattered civilization exiled from their home. 

Though most of the guests from Eight Sentinels set about trying to improve the lives of the Elezen refugees in whatever way they can with what limited resources are available, G’raha finds himself recruited for an entirely unexpected task.

“Your elbow is too high,” he says, gently pressing on the Elezen boy’s upper arm. “And your wrist is twisted - the arrow will not fly true were you to release it now.”

The Elezen bites his lip as he adjusts his stance; tears well in his sapphire eyes.

G’raha does not sigh. He has done so enough over the past two days, and doing so again will do nothing to bolster this youngster’s confidence.

“Again,” he says instead. “Your target.”

Joulet Haillenarte - _Ser_ Joulet, to be exact - blinks furiously but does as he’s told, directing his arrow towards a bale of hay a few yalms away. Someone had sloppily dabbed a circular target onto the front of it with red paint. They are slightly outside of Tailfeather proper, on the outskirts of the tent city that clutters an ancient road and surrounds the massive trees, in the only archery range G’raha could find. A few bored Elezen watch from a distance, but none are eager to meet the strange, blue-handed Miqo’te with crimson eyes.

The boy’s first arrow falls short, embedding itself in the dirt a fulm from the target.

“Again.”

Joulet’s lip trembles but he draws another arrow. His hands shake as he pulls back the string; nothing about his stance is perfect but it is a remarkable improvement for his second day holding a weapon.

House Haillenarte had been one of the four High Houses of Ishgard. The name still holds power so far as the displaced Ishgardians are concerned, but recent events have upset the balance: Count Gallijaux Haillenate had been badly wounded in the blast at Falcon’s Nest, and his eldest son killed. Eight-year-old Joulet has done a lot of growing in less than forty-eight hours, but G’raha knows nothing can turn a child into a count overnight.

The second arrow manages to reach the bale but bounces off, lying flat in the dirt. 

“Again - draw back further. You want it to impale the hay, which means you need sufficient force to do so.”

Rather than draw another arrow, Joulet hangs his head as his bow dangles limp from his hands. Tears slide off the boy’s chin and land in the dirt.

G’raha closes his eyes. He’d hoped to provide a distraction, anything to keep Joulet’s mind off his nightmarish new reality, but this may be too soon. He remembers how he felt his first few days in Eight Sentinels, and he had been - relatively - more mature at the time. 

“My apologies, ser,” he says, moving forward to kneel at the youngster’s feet. He gently takes the bow from Joulet’s hands. “I did not mean to upset you. We can put this aside for the day.”

The Elezen wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve; his sandy blond hair hides his expression. “I’m not a fighter, ser, I’m s-sorry. I never wanted to be, I - I wanted to be a craftsman.”

“Can you not be both?”

Joulet shakes his head. “Not as the c-count, no. So long as my b-brother would inherit the title I could do as I please, b-but now…”

G’raha winces. While Gallijaux Haillenarte still lives Joulet remains the heir of the house, but rumours say the count will succumb to his injuries within the fortnight. “I am sorry.” It isn’t enough - it is never enough - but he knows not what else he can say. He rises, dusting off his knees, and bows. “I shall leave you, ser. I hope your day improves.”

“No, please - p-please stay.” Joulet’s pale cheeks flush red. “Before F-Falcon’s Nest my f-father said - he s-said you are a historian. H-he said you study the past.”

“That is true,” G’raha says slowly, cocking his head to one side. “Are you interested in history?”

A shy smile masks some of the sorrow on the youngster’s face. “I like to learn - Uncle Rhon has been teaching me some things, but you - you _lived_ through those things.”

G’raha chokes. He cannot be sure if he is more surprised by the title or the nickname, but hearing Count Rhongomiant referred to as such jarrs against his limited knowledge of the man. Attempting to regain his footing, he asks, “What would you like to know?”

Questions tumble out of Joulet’s mouth faster than G’raha can track them, but rather than halt the flow he lets the young Elezen talk. As each query triggers three or four more the sorrow and shame finally leave Joulet’s face, and wonder replaces it. Though G’raha badly wants to smile he schools his face into a look of fierce attention as he attempts to navigate the sea of questions left before him. 

*

“You’ve never flown a chocobo before?”

G’raha runs a hand over the yellow-feathered creature in front of him, revelling in a texture he has not felt in a very long time. “They tend to keep their feet on the ground where I’m from.”

Joulet frowns suspiciously, as though he’s never heard such madness, before turning back to the chocobo nearest him. It eyes them curiously with its head tilted to one side. “Then how did you travel?”

“Airship, or cart, or chocobo-by-land,” G’raha replies. “Sometimes by boat. Often by aetheryte.”

“What was it like? Travelling by aetheryte, I mean?”

He rests his hands on his hips, caught off-guard by a question he’s never given much mind to. “Have you never teleported before?”

Joulet grins. “That is a silly question, ser - where would I teleport to?”

“Good point.” Though Syrcus Tower is overflowing with Allagan cubes and G’raha’s childhood had benefited from an abundance of aetherytes in various locales, it is difficult to remember that such devices are relics of the past for most of Eorzea. “Where is the nearest active aetheryte to us?”

“Mor Dhona,” a voice behind them says, low and rumbling like gravel shifting under a boot. Count Rhongomiant moves into G’raha’s eyeline a moment later, his large domed helm covering his upper face and his little wyvern curled around his neck. He enters the chocobo enclosure with the ease of one used to the place, deftly dodging piles of bird droppings as he makes his way to the cluster of chocobos near them. “No one has attuned there for many, many years.”

“Uncle Rhon!” Joulet darts past G’raha, giving the count a quick, jerky bow before slamming into him and wrapping his arms around the dragoon’s waist. It seems to be a practiced movement, as Joulet somehow manages to slip his small limbs between the spikes and ornaments covering the purple armor - and Rhongomiant’s expression of awkward resignation forces G’raha to hide his grin. The last thing he wants to do is embarrass either the boy or the count. “Are you here to fly with us?”

“It was suggested I escort you,” Rhongomiant says, carefully extricating himself from the boy’s hug. Though he speaks to the boy, G’raha has the uncanny feeling the Elezen’s eyes are on him. “The council has called a recess for the rest of the afternoon, so I have time to spare - if neither of you mind, of course.”

“I don’t!” The boy spins to G’raha and hesitates, seeming to realize that his guest’s opinion may not be his own. 

“I have no issue with the company,” G’raha says lightly. In truth he is eager to learn more of this dragoon; with the council spending most of their time alone to the northeast he has had little chance to learn of any of the members of the High Houses - save Joulet, of course. “Indeed, the more the merrier if you volunteer to catch me.”

A hint of a smile under Rhongomiant’s helm vanishes before G’raha can even be sure he saw it. “I am sure that will not be necessary. Do you need assistance mounting?”

Rather than reply G’raha launches himself onto the back of the chocobo, which gives a quiet _kweh_ , rustles its feathers, and settles. He gives the chocobo a few rudimentary commands, taking the reins in both hands as he dredges up memories from two centuries earlier. “I was good at this, once,” he mutters, taking the bird in a circle around the two Elezen.

“Good at it still,” the count says quietly.

“I am bored,” Ohl Rheia announces in her high-pitched voice before launching herself from Rhongomiant's shoulder. She spirals upwards through the high canopy, her little wings beating hard as she rises higher and higher over their heads to eventually fade behind the foliage over Tailfeather.

“The chocobo knows what to do,” Joulet says excitedly, clambering onto his own small mount. Rhongomiant helps him up almost absent-mindedly, patting the boy’s back before he walks to another saddled bird. Unlike most of the chocobos this one is a pale, dusty grey; the saddle is armored in the same purple spikes as its rider.

“I sure hope it does,” G’raha murmurs, wrenching his curious gaze from the strange Elezen as he focuses on the beast below him. Riding in circles is all well and good, but Joulet wants him to _fly_ \- an alien concept when not riding a trusty, captained airship. “How exactly do I -”

Rhongomiant suddenly reaches over to give the bird a gentle smack near its tail feathers and G’raha is all-too-quickly rising from the ground. His thighs clamp around the creature’s barrel-thick body as the leather rein digs into his fingers; his own nails press into his palms as he holds on desperately. The ground below him recedes; the Elezen below become tiny specks and then he is passing through the canopy, leaves whispering down his arms and back and hitting his head, before he bursts into sunny skies.

“Lean forward!” Ohl Rheia zooms around him, looping and spinning in the air. “Or you’ll keep rising!”

He quickly does so and the chocobo stops its climb, flapping calmly high above the tent-city under the canopy.

“Not horrible,” the little wyvern says. “For your first time.”

“Oh, good,” G’raha mutters, willing his lungs to suck in air. The fear charging through him is not the same fear he faced in the bowels of Syrcus Tower: the looming darkness had terrified him far more than this open emptiness. At least he can see the situation: there is nothing hiding in the shadows here!

The two Elezen quickly fly up to meet him. Joulet grins at him impishly, at once happy and amused, and G’raha forces himself to smile back. He’d volunteered to keep the boy busy, hadn’t he? If the price of laughter is his own pride, so be it.

“Now what?” he asks loudly, throwing his voice to allow them to hear him over the wind.

“Now we fly!” Joulet’s chocobo takes off at high speed, whisking him off towards the towering mountain to the northwest. Rhongomiant follows silently, leaving G’raha to try to figure out what command makes the chocobo actually move. Trial and error with his knees and his heels eventually leads to the poor mount finally flying in the right direction.

Flying is simultaneously similar and alien to riding a chocobo on the ground: steering his chocobo begins to come innately as muscle memory takes over, but the motions are softer, without the constant thud of feet pounding against the ground, and the whistle of cold wind against his ears is a constant reminder that he is a small speck in the wide, open air. His stomach coils nervously whenever he looks to the ground below, though he knows the birds are trained to stay aloft, and he pushes past his discomfort to keep his eyes on the Elezen ahead of him.

Joulet flies erratically, taking his chocobo on a winding course that changes in elevation as he sometimes leads, sometimes follows. From this distance it’s impossible to tell how the chocobo feels about its rider, but it appears to move effortlessly. Rhongomiant is an arrow in comparison to Joulet’s fly-like pattern: the count never deviates from his course, though his head continuously swivels back and forth as he keeps the boy in his eyesight.

G’raha urges his chocobo forward; they catch up to the count in a few moments, but he suddenly finds himself overcome with awkwardness. This Elezen is not royalty, not exactly, but he is still a powerful enigma in a society G’raha knows little about.

Whether sensing G’raha’s hesitation or having his own need to speak, Rhongomiant fills the silence. “I appreciate you spending time with the boy. He is young to endure such losses.”

“I imagine such a thing is not uncommon, given the situation?”

Rhongomiant’s lips curl downwards in a grimace. “It is true that many children are orphaned young - and many parents bury their offspring long before their time. Our situation is not unique in this world.”

G’raha holds his tongue. The world outside of Eight Sentinels is still largely unknown to him, but from what he has gathered most settlements fight hard for every inch. Even Derrik’s small group endured constant onslaughts from the Birdmen - at least, they had until G’raha’s shield had taken that worry away. He’d never thought to ask Hollwyda for a comparison in casualties before and after his arrival, but he files that thought away for later as Rhongomiant speaks again.

“What has Joulet told you of me?”

G’raha glances at the dragoon, but his head remains focused on the boy. His lower face has relaxed into a muted, unreadable expression, but the question seems anything but innocent. “Very little. I am not one for gossip.”

“I would not assume so, but you are a self-proclaimed historian. One does not achieve such a title without an eye for details.”

“He calls you ‘uncle’,” G’raha says after a moment. It seems innocuous enough to mention.

Rhongomiant snorts. “Yes, and I’m no more his blood than you are.” His tone softens as Ohl Rheia gently lands on his shoulder; her black, beady eyes focus on G’raha as her tail entwines itself around the spikes on the count’s pauldron. “His mother was our previous Azure Dragoon. When she passed it felt only right that I look after more than just her title.”

G’raha’s gaze shifts to the seemingly-carefree boy; he can see the grin from here. “Any mother would appreciate such a gesture.”

“I like to think so.”

A not uncomfortable silence falls between them; they watch the boy dart back and forth as the shadow of Sohm Al darkens the land behind him. Questions tumble through G’raha’s mind and he pushes them all aside, telling himself now is not the time to quiz this stranger on the intricacies of life as a refugee, or his people’s flight from Ishgard, or even his complicated status as both noted warrior and leader.

“You intend to make your way to Fortemps Manor.”

It is not a question, but G’raha still feels compelled to respond. “I do. We hope at least one copy of _Heavensward_ has survived, and looking in the author’s home seems the wisest course.”

Rhongomiant suddenly stops, his chocobo pausing in its flight, and G’raha hurries to halt his as well. For the first time the dragoon’s helm swivels in G’raha’s direction; he stares blankly at that dark purple dome as his mind skitters. “The Ironworks intend to change the course of history - they intend to undo everything that led to this reality. You truly believe one fabled book will enable them to do so?”

Remembering other outsiders’ reactions to this news, G’raha cannot help but tense - but he does not dodge the question. “I do.”

The helm turns back to watch Joulet fly in circles. The count’s next words are so quiet G’raha almost misses them. “Then I shall do everything in my power to make sure you find what you seek.”

“I - thank you.” G’raha stares at the dragoon as he flies closer to the boy. After dealing with Count Victoire’s open animosity he had assumed none of the counts would think their cause worth pursuing - to hear Rhongomiant speak thus is not only surprising but encouraging. He is attempting to think of a response - while debating whether it is in good taste to ask after Victoire’s intentions - when the dragoon suddenly raises one hand. Joulet immediately flies to his side, his eyes large and his face pale, and G’raha sees why a moment later.

Dragons - dozens and dozens of dragons in every shape and colour he could possibly imagine. They fill the sky over Sohm Al, descending from its cloud-covered heights to make their way to the council’s eastern settlement like a strange technicolour fog.

Ohl Rheia rises from her spot on the count’s shoulder to fly beside him; her tail snaps back and forth like an upset cat. “Oh, no - oh, no, no, no!”

Rhongomiant’s hand reaches out to grasp Joulet’s shoulder; the boy is shivering in his seat, his wide eyes never leaving the procession of winged creatures in the distance. “We must return,” the count says. “Now.” He grabs Joulet’s reins out of the boy’s hands and drags the chocobo after him, flying in a semi-circle to direct them back towards Tailfeather.

G’raha remains a moment longer. The sight of those dragons fills him with wonder and foreboding; he wants to watch just as much as he wants to avoid whatever this sight signifies.

“It is a procession of the elders,” Ohl Rheia says, still flapping in place. Regret and dismay colour her voice. “They come to pay respects.”

“What does that mean?” Trepidation worms through his heart; a part of him already guesses.

“It means Count Gallijaux has passed from this life...and Count Joulet’s presence is required.”


	18. Fortune's Fool

Count Gallijaux and his eldest son’s dual funerals disrupt the semblance of normality G’raha had come to expect from the Elezen camps. Everyone with power - including Biggs and Derrik - retreats to Iron Feast to take part in a multiple-day wake, leaving the majority of the guests and lower-class Elezen behind in Tailfeather. Desperation clings to the common people like a shroud: in their eyes the High Houses are bastions of old power, untouchable heroes destined to lead them to the land of their forefathers. Witnessing the death of not one but two members of House Haillenarte tests the people’s confidence in a way G’raha has never seen before.

The morning of the second day brings an overcast sky and clinging, freezing mists. Rolling out of a damp sleeping bag into a dripping tent, G’raha throws on his cold cloak and hurries to the nearest campfire. Even with his fingers buried deep under his armpits he cannot warm his joints; his shoulders arch almost to his ears in an attempt to keep his body-heat centralized. Stumbling through mud thick enough to lose a shoe in, he staggers his way up to a familiar silhouette.

“Hrm.” 

“Good morning to you, too.” He shifts beside her, nearly thrusting his hands directly into the flames in an attempt to feel any kind of warmth. A few soldiers from Eight Sentinels sit on the other side of the fire, all looking equally miserable. “Breakfast?”

“Late,” Nalza replies shortly. “Cart is stuck in the mud.”

“Wonderful.” G’raha flicks a finger towards their fire. Aether sparks the flames into a roaring, blazing furnace and everyone nearby immediately relaxes, soaking up the sudden burst of comfort. “I’ll be back.”

“Not alone.” The Viera falls into step behind him, trudging through ankle-deep muck as they slowly force their way through the rows and rows of tents. “Biggs would kill me if I let you go alone.”

“No one’s going to hurt me,” he says quietly, though he isn’t opposed to her joining him. They approach the nearest camp and G’raha holds up a hand in greeting. The Elezen stare, huddled next to their meager fire as they watch the newcomers. “Would you be opposed to a bit of magic?”

The Elezen look among themselves, clearly unsure what that could possibly mean, before the one nearest them shrugs. G’raha again sends a spark of aether towards their fire; they step backwards, some with cries of shock as the flames jump two fulms in height, but calm when they realize that is the limit of the spell.

In the hour G’raha has before their food arrives he manages to power some three dozen campfires, occasionally stopping for smalltalk with the Elezen brave enough to speak with him. None encourage him to stay, but he is not eager for company anyway: sparking fires is a tiny gesture in the long run. The small amount of magic he uses will cause them to burn hotter for a few hours at most.

“Does such a demonstration affect your illness?” Nalza asks when they return to their own campfire. Elezen culinarians run this way and that, handing out bowls of oatmeal and cups of coffee, and G’raha takes both with hearty gratitude.

“Illness is not the word,” he replies as he takes a seat on a tree stump intended for such a purpose. “And I will have to nap this afternoon, but that is a small price to pay.”

“Hrm.” She sits next to him, towering above him even on her small log. “You are not acclimatizing to it?”

“I don’t think it’s something I can adjust to, really. I am honestly happier that it is not becoming worse - so long as it stays at this level I can endure it, work with it, find my limitations.” He takes a sip of coffee, cringing as the bitter, lukewarm liquid curls over his tongue, and attempts to balance his rough clay bowl on his knees. Oatmeal is a bland alternative to the pastries and fruits he had access to in Eight Sentinels but he will not complain: they are draining what little resources the Elezen have just by being there. It would be incredibly rude of him to ask for anything else.

“G’raha.”

He hears the warning in the Viera’s tone but doesn’t look up from his bowl as footsteps stop near their fire. Conversations end as the others from Eight Sentinels turn their attention to the newcomer; he sees bodies shifting anxiously and eyes glancing his way as he continues to devour mouthfuls of quickly-cooling mush.

“Greetings.” The newcomer’s voice is surprisingly loud. “I assume you are G’raha Tia?”

Placing his now-empty bowl on the ground, G’raha stands to face whoever has joined them and finds himself blinking up at a very tall Elezen woman. Pure white hair cascades over her shoulders and down the front of her heavy coat, contrasting sharply with her olive skin and black eyes. A gnarled staff twists high above her head, tiny leaves reaching out in all directions, and large gemstones dangle from both of her ears.

“You have the right of it,” he says, watching her neutral expression closely. Wrinkles and her hair hint at her age, but it is impossible to discern any more than a rough estimate - she neither stoops nor shakes, standing as still as a statue as her large black eyes roam over him from head to toe. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure…?”

“No,” she says blandly. “You may call me Laisavie. I wish to speak with you - alone, preferably.”

“Is it not strange to find Count Victoire’s adjutant among us rabble on so notable a day as this?” Nalza stands and moves beside G’raha, leaving him caught between the two towering women. It is an odd, childlike position to find himself in; were their expressions not so serious he would have been tempted to laugh.

“I am a healer, not a priest,” the Elezen says. Though her tone is calm, her eyes snap towards the Viera before returning to G’raha. “There is little I can do at a wake, and we are short of time. However, if you would decline my invitation -”

“I would not,” G’raha interjects smoothly. “A walk would be welcome on so gloomy a morning.”

Nalza immediately steps forward. “Not -”

“I will be fine.” He rests one hand on her arm, attempting to calm her, but the Elezen’s appearance has not done wonders for the already-unimpressed historian’s attitude. She shrugs off his hand and returns to her seat by the fire, resuming her meal without giving him a second glance.

“Excellent.” The Elezen’s tone remains bland. She turns on her heel to make her way through the muck between tents, leading G’raha towards the edge of Tailfeather at a slow but steady pace.

He makes a point of watching the Elezen they pass, sneaking glimpses of pale faces through the mists and short tents. All seem far more fascinated by Laisavie than they do him, watching her with expressions of adoration and veneration usually reserved for one of the High Houses. The diverted attention is honestly a mercy: the mud twists and squirms below his feet, squelching unpleasantly as he attempts to keep pace with the regal woman leading him. His Allagan staff is his pillar of stability, saving him from more than a few embarrassing staggers and slips while the Elezen seems to almost glide over the mess.

Just when G’raha begins to question whether levitation would be a worthwhile use of magic Laisavie turns towards rocky ground, leading them away from the mass of tents towards the natural rocky walls. The path begins to climb upwards, taking them around and up until they stand on the outer rim of the crags that surround Tailfeather’s heart. Massive trees sway in the wind far above them and Sohm Al darkens the northwestern horizon; the din of voices and chocobos and carts reaches them even here, though somewhat dampened by distance.

“We thought Biggs mad, you know.” The Elezen’s voice is light, pitched to carry just above the murmur of sounds below them. She moves to the ledge overlooking Tailfeather’s entrance. “And his predecessor, and hers, and whoever came before. The Warrior of Light is a dead legend, we said - honour his memory and let him rest in peace, so we can set to work rebuilding this world and cementing our future.” She clicks her tongue against the back of her teeth. “We never thought the fool would actually open the damn tower.”

G’raha stays silent. The urge to defend Biggs and the Ironworks burns in his chest, as he knows she intends it to, but he waits for her to continue. Some of his anger is balanced by relief that he asked Nalza to stay behind - she would have already snapped at the bait.

“Now a new reality presents itself - one that complicates our plans even as it pretends to compliment them. Our astrologians have never been so wayward - the stars, they say, speak of multiple paths in a pattern unknown to us. It is as though there are two futures: not two _possible_ futures, that our choices will sway and determine, but two _actual_ futures for two separate realities.”

The chill seeping through G’raha’s spine has little to do with the mists that cloak the morning air. His hands tighten around his staff but still he remains silent.

“The Ironworks has never hidden its purpose: we have always known they intend to travel through time to avert the last Calamity. A fool’s errand, we said as we turned them away, but now we find the fool has almost completed his task and stands waving from an impassable distance.” 

“Why is it impassable?”

“Because we have no interest in joining you.”

G’raha moves to stand beside her, staring at her face in profile; the woman’s expression is stern, serious, stoic. “You believe we will fail?”

“It does not matter,” she says dismissively. “This world is on its path and you attempt to divert it - to change history instead of accepting it.” Her dark eyes slide to him. “We lost. The Calamity happened. Playing with Allagan toys disrespects the dead and wastes time and resources that would better be used to rebuild our world.”

“You lost,” G’raha says quietly, meeting her stare. “The Imperials took over Ishgard. Fighting to take it back disrespects those who toiled to make a place for you here, and wastes time and resources that could be better used in creating real homes for your people.”

She turns to face him as a flush darkens her cheeks. “What you consider hypocrisy we believe is inevitable. We will not allow the Imperials to exist in Ishgard.”

“Just as we will not allow the Ascians to continue their machinations,” G’raha returns, some heat entering his voice. He is well aware of Count Victoire’s opinion of the Ironworks’ mission, but he had not expected her to send her adjutant to question his resolve. “Your vision is distracted by decoys while we attempt to cut the strings holding them in place: the _Ascians_ are the cause of this evil. Whatever small actions you take are meaningless so long as those dark beings continue to usher in Calamity after Calamity.”

“From Ishgard -“

He cuts her off, protocol and politeness be damned. “How well do you know your history? The time between the Seventh Calamity and the Eighth was less than a decade - does that not speak to you of the importance of working beyond our small worries in the present? Your world has survived two centuries without another Calamity - how are you certain another is not waiting for you behind Ishgard’s gates? How can you continue to plan for a future that could end at any moment?”

“How would you feel if your power was in the Ascians’s hands?” she argues. “How would you feel if they could change the outcome of wars you thought long decided? Are they not the heroes of their own story, and destined to fight just as hard for what they believe in?”

“The Ascians have no heroes,” he says, unable to keep the snarl from his voice. “Only monsters.”

“And what is to say those monsters will not take your power from you? Do you believe they will stand by and allow you to meddle with time itself? You play with powers you do not understand, powers that could easily allow our enemies to destroy _everything_ \- all because you need to save one dead Hyur who had a bit of luck!”

G’raha’s anger crystallizes into something sharp and he cannot stop himself from snapping, “If you believe the Warrior of Light operated on luck alone then I begin to understand why you’ve thrown in your lot with fortune tellers.”

Anger flashes across her face and she takes a step back. While G’raha regrets lashing out at her - and knows his insult will not go over well with Count Victoire when she hears of it - he has little patience for the short-sighted narrative she parrots, and even less for anyone willing to diminish Vahl’s achievements.

Biased and irrational as he may be, he knows he isn’t the only one who would’ve been baited by such a remark.

“Was provoking me your purpose?” he asks, carefully maneuvering them back to hospitable grounds.

“Not _my_ purpose, no.” Her face is once again a mask of politeness - though her dark eyes flash with fury. “The counts are very curious about you.”

“Count Victoire is, you mean.”

She gestures over the edge of the rocky path towards the clusters of tents and hovels below them. “Our people rely on the High Houses to bring them home. We place our trust in you and your southern companions out of necessity, and for what? The promise that all you want in return is access to one building, which may or may not hold a piece of the puzzle you require to unravel our world?” She snorts and taps her staff against the ground. “With one hand you offer us aid, while the other threatens to destroy us.”

“Our plan does not guarantee the end of this timeline.”

“Notice how you don’t say our survival is ensured.” She pauses; when next she speaks her voice is quieter, softer - G’raha suspects these words come from the heart, and not whatever Count Victoire has asked her to say. “I came here hoping you would put our worries to rest - surely, I told myself, an Allagan would not stoop to the insidious rhetoric of the Ironworks. Alas.”

“Is that all you know of me?” he asks slowly, frowning as he keeps his gaze on the tents below. Biggs and Derrik had made the decision to explain as little as possible about G’raha, and though he had initially agreed with their reasoning - how he survived and why he is key to their plans would be dangerous information in the wrong hands - he now realizes some of his story is imperative to understanding the Ironworks’ cause. Allowing the Elezen to fill in the gaps will inevitably force them to come to strange conclusions. 

“An Allagan Miqo’te from the Crystal Tower of Mor Dhona,” she says, her tone almost sing-song as her rich voice skips across the consonants. She drops the sing-song and shakes her head. “A mage, they said, yet you wielded a bow at the Battle of Falcon’s Nest. A wise elder, I was told, yet you appear young enough to be my grandchild. I assume conjecture has muddied what little information made its way to us.”

“Not a natural mage, no, and not nearly so old as you believe me to be.” Nerves coil in his stomach as he weighs his words. Dispelling the mystery surrounding himself has pros and cons, to be sure, but he cannot divine which will help him most. Finally he sighs and shakes his head. “I am Allagan by blood, not by birth. In my time I was known as nothing more than a historian with a strange sense of humour - a youth driven to adventure even when he wasn’t quite sure what awaited him.”

“So your presence in the tower…?”

“Fate, if you believe in such things. Luck, if you do not.” 

“I apologize,” she says after a moment. “I did not mean to imply the Warrior of Light accomplished everything he did without some guiding hand leading him - he was Hydaelyn’s chosen, after all. It was a poor choice of words.”

G’raha shrugs, unable to resist the small, crooked smile that twists his mouth upwards. “Ah, you would not say the same were you there to witness it. Dumb luck often makes heroes of fools, and he would’ve been the first to tell you so.”

“You - you knew him?” She leans forward as her attention narrows. “You met the Warrior of Light?”

Pros and cons, muddling and shifting and murky as the mud-slathered roads below them. It is a risk, but in this life isn’t everything? At least he manages to take some pleasure from her expression as he gently says, “He was ever my inspiration, my guiding light in dark and confusing times, and leaving him behind was one of the most difficult decisions I have ever made. If you would like to know more of me, think of me not as the Allagan Miqo’te of the Crystal Tower but as a member of the Students of Baldesion, as a marksman with a penchant for Allagan things and new experiences - and as the Warrior of Light’s lover.” 

*

“You told her _what_?”

G’raha rubs his forehead. “They would have learned the truth in time.”

“Which is what we want - time _after_ we’re gone! Time when we can still bargain! Time when we don’t reveal every little detail of our biggest mystery!”

“Nalza…” He throws his hands over his head, exasperation and exhaustion wearing out all of his patience. “It’s done. She knows, which means the High Houses will know, and what happens next is in their hands. Let us not think the worst of our allies, please?”

She mutters something rude low enough that G’raha can pretend he doesn’t hear it. They are alone, seated on either side of the small fire they’d broken their fast at some few hours earlier, and the mist has finally given way to grey clouds and occasional bouts of light rain. Anyone with any sense is either finding a way to keep busy or hiding indoors, but G’raha knows Nalza barely fits inside the tent they’d let her borrow. Lethargy and dizziness have already begun to hamper his movements but he fights past them to keep her company a little while longer. 

“Pride is a dangerous thing,” Nalza says after a few minutes of silence. She throws another log on the fire and sits back, her eyes invisible behind the reflection of flames on her glasses. “It creates a blindspot even when history seems set to repeat itself.”

“Even we cannot claim innocence to that.”

“ _We_ have never been at war with a nation for hundreds of years and denied responsibility.” She sighs and glances up at the canopy far, far above their heads. “No one can be happy in a place like this. I don’t believe I’ll smile again until I see that familiar blue tower.”

“I will be sure to take notice of it,” G’raha says lightly. “Your very first smile.”

“Ha!” A flash of humour brightens her face even as she rolls her eyes in exasperation. “If nothing else, Allagan, I am glad to be in your company.”

G’raha has no reply to that. Her honesty blindsides him, especially since he is not entirely sure how he feels about this Viera - but he is saved having to think of a reply by the arrival of an Elezen messenger approaching their fire. 

“Militia,” Nalza says quietly as they both rise. To G’raha the approaching youth looks much the same as every other Elezen they pass, but something about his garb must have given it away. 

“G’raha Tia?” 

“Greetings,” he says with a wave. “How may I be of service?”

The boy’s eyes dart repeatedly to G’raha’s crystal hand, but he manages to otherwise follow protocol, giving them both a quick-snap salute before planting his feet. “The High Houses request your presence tomorrow morning for tactical deliberations. A mount shall await you at dawn. What response would you entreat me to convey?”

G’raha and Nalza exchange looks. What exactly had Laisavie told the Counts, and how much of a mess had he inadvertently stepped in? With no choice but to accept, G’raha smiles at the messenger. “I am humbled and eager to stand before them. I will be ready at dawn - at the chocobo paddock, I assume?”

“Nay, ser.” The boy gestures towards Tailfeather’s eastward gate. “Your escort will meet you on the road. You will not be using chocobos.” He salutes again and turns on his heel, though some of the decorum is lost by the constant squelching beneath his boots as he walks away. 

“Not be using chocobos?” Nalza repeats quietly. “What other type of mount is there?”

“I suppose I’ll find out,” he says with a frown. His thoughts are already on the morrow’s meeting: it will be his first time speaking with all four counts. Nerves jitter around his belly like fireflies in a bottle and he forces himself to breathe deep. “What is the worst that could happen?”

Nalza’s delicately-arched eyebrow does not inspire confidence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the repeating "lessons" or motifs in FFXIV has been to look forward, remembering those we lost but doing better for those still alive. For the most part Shadowbringers heavily leans into this, but I've always found it odd that G'raha and the post-Calamity Ironworks are the exception - 
> 
> If Emet-Selch went back in time to avert the Final Days, potentially erasing all history, would he still be the bad guy? 
> 
> (Probably.)
> 
> Lore debates aside, thank you for reading!


	19. Have Wings, Will Fly

G’raha exits Tailfeather the next morning with more than a touch of trepidation. When they had first set out to Coerthas he’d made himself very clear: whatever the situation may be he would involve himself as little as possible. Keeping a low profile in Coerthas seemed the wisest course, lest he allow his inexperience to speak for him, and though he has had the opportunity to interact with three of the four High House Counts he truly has no desire to speak with all of them in an official capacity. Even before the World of Darkness he’d avoided people with power - when Vahl had spoken with the leaders of various factions G’raha had never once accompanied him. There was, he’d argued, no need for him to be involved.

A small, annoying part of his mind knows that he is now one of those leaders through Eight Sentinels and Syrcus Tower, but acknowledging that he has fallen in with powerful friends is not the same as accepting that a touch of that power extends to him. Knowing he’d taken the lead back at Baelsar’s Wall does little to bolster his confidence: he’d been in the unique position of bargaining with a slice of his own magic. At the time it had made sense that he took the reins.

Power is a strange temptation, and though G’raha thinks himself above the pull of it he fervently believes it is simpler to avoid it entirely. Whatever royal Allagan blood he possesses may entitle him to some sort of social graces, but whether that is for good or ill he is not willing to risk. 

Allag, after all, isn’t remembered for its kindness.

Two dragons wait for him a few minutes beyond the boundaries of the last rows of tents and ramshackle shelters. G’raha almost misses the blond Elezen leaning casually against the larger dragon’s flank, a small wooden flute in his hands as he plays a quiet, whimsical melody. With the sun streaming through the canopy - the first sunny day they’ve had since Count Gallijeux’s death - the strange trio seems almost idyllic compared to the desperate people behind him. The larger dragon is the colour of sparkling rust, big-bellied with enormous, membranous wings and an elongated head at the end of a snake-like neck. Beside it lies a smaller matte-grey dragon, lazing on its back like a cat soaking up sun. Spikes and pointed, angular scales coat what little G’raha can see of the grey dragon; as he approaches he realizes the creature’s eyes are closed and its mouth is open in a wide, toothy grin.

The music stops the moment the Elezen sees G’raha’s approach; the closer he comes the more he notices about the tall, thickset man. Short blond hair and ruddy, wind-reddened cheeks give the Elezen the appearance of a young man, but the wrinkles at the corners of the bright blue eyes speak of a maturity in age, if not in attitude. The grin that spreads over the Elezen’s face reminds G’raha of W’cheruh - or of himself, perhaps, before Syrcus Tower. 

“Our Allagan guest arrives!” The wooden flute disappears into one of the many pockets on the Elezen’s coat as he pushes off from the dragon and turns to face G’raha. “Good morning, G’raha Tia!”

“Good morning,” he replies, stopping a few fulms from the strange trio. The lazing dragon doesn’t move, though he cannot tell if it is listening or sleeping, but the orange dragon turns its long head to watch. Large eyes the colour of garnets stare at him without blinking; whatever words G’raha meant to say evaporate. Knowing these are immortal and fiercely intelligent beings is not the same as witnessing it - and the wisdom held within those deep red eyes is nearly overwhelming.

“First time flying?” The Elezen moves into G’raha’s eyesight, cutting off his view of the dragon head beyond, and G’raha blinks for a few moments before he realizes the Elezen is offering his hand. He takes it and shakes, watching the man’s smile widen as he winks. “Everyone’s always nervous the first time.”

“Is it that obvious?” G’raha murmurs. Some confidence returns and he manages to scavenge a few of his words. “I apologize, but I don’t believe we’ve been introduced...?”

“Call me Rholont.” The Elezen slaps a hand on the orange dragon’s flank. “This here is Haietlik, the sleeping beauty behind me is Ullrnott, and we three will be escorting you north.”

Haietlik nods, her neck contorting into a wave as she does. “Greetings, Miqo’te.”

A massive dark tongue lolls out of the grey dragon’s mouth; G’raha is no expert at reading dragon expressions but he hopes the show of teeth is a grin. Enormous yellow eyes open slowly, blinking separately from each other like a lizard, before settling on him. “Hello, little friend.” The creature stretches, both hands reaching forward as massive talons extend out towards G’raha, and then relaxes as he flips onto his stomach in a smooth roll.

G’raha does the only thing he can think of and bows low, holding himself bent at the waist for a few moments. The back of his neck prickles and he can’t help wondering how many swipes those talons would need to take to cut through one tiny neck - but he rights himself without either of the dragons making a move towards him.

“You’ll be taking Haietlik,” Rholont says. “She’s sturdy and flies true - all you have to do is hold on.”

For the first time G’raha notices the harnesses wrapped around both dragons: they are not saddles as he is familiar with them, but straps of leather held in place across the backs of each dragon. Thin reins dangle from them both - likely more of a comfort for their rider than any true means of control. 

“Will it hold me?” he asks, attempting to hide his doubt and failing miserably. He’d expected a saddle similar to what most chocobos wear: something constructed to keep the rider on their mount, whether through padding or extra straps. Thin leather and reins do little to inspire his confidence in maintaining his seat.

“You will not fall unless I want you to fall,” Haietlik says gravely, lowering her enormous head to look at him eye-to-eye. “I have trained many a new rider, young one, and you have my word you will reach your destination unharmed.”

“Not so young as he seems,” Ullrnott says, that massive grin - _grin_? - still stretched across his wide face. “Not so old as he pretends, either.”

“I don’t -”

Rholont interrupts him, snorting derisively as he pats the orange dragon’s massive, carriage-sized side. “Come - I shall give you a leg up. We are already due to arrive late, but there is a difference between fashionably so and rude.”

“So be it,” G’raha murmurs. He slides his staff over his shoulder, fitting it snugly into the loops of leather that harness it against his back, before taking the Elezen’s offer. He feels ridiculously cumbersome as he puts one boot in Rholont’s intertwined fingers and reaches up over the scaly torso in front of him, but as Rholont lifts G’raha his muscles take over and he scrambles up the dragon’s back. Sitting on that thin piece of leather with the barest hint of reins in his hands only heightens his awareness of how precariously-perched he is.

“See you on the other side,” the Elezen calls, having mounted his dragon in the time G’raha took to find his seat. The grey dragon is so low to the ground that Rholont’s feet touch the dirt, but as Ullrnott’s wings snap open Rholont folds himself up, bringings his knees up and lowering his chest against the thin saddle and scales. Ullrnott tenses, looking like a cat ready to pounce, before shooting forward and up. Dust from their take-off covers G’raha and his dragon; he waves it aside with one hand until Haietlik begins to move and he wraps his fingers into the thin strip of leather.

“I am not a show-off,” the large dragon rumbles. “We will get there when we get there.”

“Thank the gods for that,” G’raha mutters, and then the dragon’s wings unfurl and he crouches low, just as he’d seen Rholont do. Heavy, powerful beats of the massive deep orange wings take them up in bursts; it is in no way a smooth ascent - for every upwards flap they lose a little height - but it is a sturdy, comforting speed that manages to banish some of G’raha’s nerves. Passing through the canopy into brilliant, bright sky reveals Rholont and Ullrnott going through tight twists and loops. 

Haietlik snorts, her chest rumbling below G’raha’s legs, and flies straight north. “Rholont and Ullrnott command our Skyward Soldiers,” she says, her strange voice carrying over the wind rushing past G’raha ears. “They have the time to learn such tricks.”

“It’s very impressive!” He thinks it best not to mention his relief that Haietlik seems to have no inclination to attempt the same. “How many Soldiers are under his command?”

“Three squadrons, each consisting of a dozen Elezen and dragon pairs. I assume you saw some of their work at Falcon’s Nest?”

Thinking of the bursts of fire and smoke - and the screams of the Imperials caught in the blaze - G’raha makes a face he’s glad she cannot see. “I did witness it, yes. I’m rather relieved I was not in the midst of it.”

“You would be, wouldn’t you?” She sounds amused, but it is difficult for G’raha to tell. Adult dragons speak at a register far lower than tiny Ohl Rheia had, and with the rushing wind - and lingering anxiety - it is hard to discern how she feels about him. 

Ullrnott zooms in front of them, Rholont pressed tight against his back, but G’raha doesn’t bother to keep an eye on them. As beautiful as a sunny day in Dravania may be he has no desire to look at the distance between himself and the treetops, instead directing his attention forward to the large structure in the distance.

Iron Feast is unlike any defensive tower G’raha has ever seen. Wide and low, it feels as though a giant had squished a tall tower to leave a round, squat form instead. There are no curtain walls; massive blocks of dark grey stone reach directly to the heavily-shingled roof. With no balconies and only small, narrow windows the massive walls look unmarred from a distance: it is clear this structure was rebuilt for defensive reasons alone. Waterfalls surrounding it and cliffs on its south and north sides render it approachable only by air - and with dozens of multi-coloured dragons resting on rocky outcrops or in the middle of nearby streams it would be a fool who took that route uninvited.

What little G’raha knows of Iron Feast comes from ancient history: the tower had fallen early in the conflict between the dragons and Ishgard, allowing the surrounding waterfalls to reclaim their initial paths and flood the main floor of the shattered tower. Who had lived here and why they’d chosen a precarious cliff to build their tower he could not say - but the post-Calamity Elezen had evidently seen a use for the place that G’raha could not.

Ullrnott’s descent is a speeding flash that throws up a cloud of dust, but Haietlik thankfully descends in wide spirals. G’raha catches a glimpse of Derrik’s airship moored near the front door and his heart leaps just as his stomach drops; their landing comes up faster than he expected it to. A burst of dust and wind drift around them as Haietlik gives a few more wafts of her wings before settling, crouching as low to the ground as she can so G’raha can slide off. Unlocking his frozen legs he staggers a few steps away, willing his suddenly-sore muscles to respond and seriously beginning to regret his lack of a proper morning workout.

“He is here, he is here!” 

G’raha ducks as a tiny blur of blue whirls past him before doubling back, circling around his torso so fast he can’t keep his eyes on it. The small creature's voice is high enough that he almost covers his ears.

“An Allagan Miqo’te, an Allagan Miqo'te! Hello, Allagan Miqo’te!” G’raha barely glimpses the shape of a wyvern only slightly larger than a nutkin spinning around him. “I’m so happy to meet you!”

“Veri Tel!” Rholont’s expression is half-amused, half-exasperated as he comes forward twirling his flute in his fingers. “You were asked to stay at Anyx Trine, were you not?”

“Asking is not telling!” The wyvern finally stops swirling to fly just in front of Rholont’s face, but his excitement bubbles over into vibrations, his tiny sapphire body wriggling back and forth in mid-air. “He’s here, Rholont-ser!”

“Since I brought him here myself I’m pretty sure I know that,” the Elezen replies. “Get going home, pup.”

“Okay, Rholont-ser!” Veri Tel zips from Rholont back to G’raha, who has frozen in place at this strange, unpredictable exchange. “You’re really him - you’re the Warrior of Light’s mate! Oh, I can’t wait to tell my sire!”

G’raha’s world tilts even as the wyvern flies off behind him; Rholont grabs him before he falls. 

“ _Mate_?” G’raha’s voice squeaks on the single syllable. The Elezen props him upright, holding onto his upper arms until convinced G’raha’s face won’t meet dirt.

“Technically incorrect and anatomically impossible, but I’m not about to explain all about the colibris and the wespes to a thousand-year-old child.” Rholont grins as he punches G’raha’s shoulder. “Like a sapling in a gale storm, eh? You must not have children.”

There are so many thoughts, so many questions, and there is no time for any of them. “How do they know?” he murmurs, even as Rholont turns towards the heavy iron door leading into Iron Feast. “How could anyone know?”

“That is not a story for me to tell,” the Elezen says over his shoulder. The iron door opens inward as he approaches and two members of the militia quickly salute him. “Focus, Allagan. The High Houses come first.”

A small part of him wants to stop and demand answers, but the small glimpse he gets of Rholont’s face warns him now is not the time. It’s a shock how quickly the man’s humour vanishes; the look in those blue eyes startles him into silence.

Left without a choice, G’raha ducks his head and follows inside.


	20. Between Two Dzemaels

G’raha’s first impression of the inside of Iron Feast is darkness, but as his eyes adjust from the bright morning sun to the candle-lit interior he begins to make out more distinctive features. A wide staircase winds its way around the inner wall, starting a few fulms from the door and disappearing up behind the thick stone ceiling. Wooden benches sandwich long tables, dozens of them spread throughout this space, and a variety of Elezen sit around them in clusters. They turn as a group to watch the newcomers enter, twisting on their benches or looking past the many thick columns spanning from floor to ceiling in the center of the room. 

Rholont ignores them, taking the stairs at a run, and G’raha can only do the same. He grabs his staff from his back and trudges after the Elezen, muttering a small prayer that they will not have to climb the entire tower to find the Counts. He doubts he’d stay awake through his lethargy if he tried. 

The second and third floors are blocked by dark walls and heavy doors; G’raha is panting heavily by the time they reach a massive set of double doors on the fourth floor. Two militia soldiers stand on either side, their hands resting on the pommel of their swords, but upon seeing Rholont they push the doors open. 

The room beyond is just as big as the room on the main floor, taking up the entirety of the space offered by the tower. Narrow windows offer little light; collections of candles in sconces and clustered on surfaces bring a warm glow to an otherwise dark space. Judging by the towers of melted wax G’raha can only assume this room has been in use almost constantly for at least the past two days. In the very center of the room rests a massive circular table surrounded by a variety of chairs, four of which rise higher than the rest, their backs ending in elaborate carved spires. Almost every chair is filled by Elezen; only Biggs, Derrik, and Hidden Eclipse - Hollwyda’s proxy here in the north - are of a different race. 

Rholont proceeds directly up to the table and bows, his grin back on his face. “As promised, I bring you the mage G’raha Tia, of Eight Sentinels in Mor Dhona.”

Following the Elezen’s move G’raha bows a few steps behind him. When he rises he sees the eyes of everyone focusing on him; the temptation is to look for his friends, but he seeks out the counts instead. Tiny Count Joulet looks even smaller seated in his massive chair; his face is pale and his eyes downcast as he picks at the table with his thumbnail. Count Victoire sits directly across from Joulet, her eyepatch in place and a long wooden pipe nestled within her left hand. Her hair has been shorn almost to the scalp; barely an ilm of grey fuzz remains. He doesn’t trust the look on her face - it is an open expression of smug self-righteousness that immediately twists the anxiety rising in his stomach. Rather than challenging her stare - or Laisavie’s, who sits to her left - he keeps his gaze moving. The third massive chair holds what can only be Count Rhongomiant unmasked: his domed helm rests on the table in front of him. Short black hair barely covers the tips of the Elezen’s pointed ears; his pale face is thin, with a strong nose and stubborn chin. Ice blue eyes meet G’raha’s before turning down to his clasped hands. The dragoon looks neither happy nor comfortable being there; Ohl Rheia is obviously lacking from his shoulders.

The fourth leader of the High Houses sits in the final large chair: Count Drachant Durendaire, leader of the militia and the eldest ruler of the High Houses. His short grey hair is cropped close to his skull, making no attempt to hide the bright white scar running jaggedly from one eyebrow back over the top of his head, and his piercing blue eyes watch Victoire with a strange intensity. His matte black armour makes him appear larger than those seated next to him, but G’raha’s eyes immediately flicker towards his left shoulder: the man’s shield arm ends just above the elbow.

“Welcome, G’raha Tia,” Count Victoire gestures to the opposite side of the massive table. “Please take a seat.”

Rholont moves into the empty seat next to Drachant, wiggling his eyebrows at G’raha as he passes. There is a terrifying moment where he is the only person standing, but Biggs quickly gestures to a chair beside him. G’raha slides into it, wincing at the screech as he drags it forward over stone.

“Great to see you,” Biggs mutters out the side of his mouth. 

“Likewise,” G’raha quietly returns. With so many eyes still on him he focuses on the table between them all: the surface is intricately-carved with the topography of Coerthas and Dravania, ranging all the way from Revenant’s Toll to Idyllshire. G’raha’s seat is near the eastern parts of Coerthas; though he knows it to be Xelphatol there is no script on the table indicating so.

“As I was saying…” Count Victoire says, her gaze moving from G’raha to the map below her. “This distraction with House Haillenarte has taken enough of our time and energy - while we voice platitudes our enemy prepares for our inevitable push forward. We are out of time.”

“We are well aware of the situation,” Count Drachant replies, his scarred face barely moving as he maintains his stare across the table. “We cannot proceed until all troops are accounted for.”

“And who are we waiting for?” The displeasure and disapproval in Victoire’s voice are palpable.

Rholont flicks his wrist upward, pointing one finger to the ceiling. “Myself, unfortunately. Repairs on our harnesses are still underway after Falcon’s Nest - we will be ready to fly at dawn the day after tomorrow.”

Victoire sucks on her narrow pipe, her one eye never leaving the Soldier’s face, before blowing out a jet of smoke that hangs overhead like smog. “Dawn the day after tomorrow. Are the rest in agreement?”

“Yes.” Rhongomiant sounds bored, his tone dull and his eyes still on his hands. 

“We are ready whenever you are,” Derrik says. G’raha wishes he could see the man’s expression - he sounds strangely stilted - but the two Roegadyn block his view. 

“And your folk?” Drachant still stares at Victoire, who has begun puffing tiny clouds of smoke towards the ceiling. 

“Ready and willing days ago.”

Two spots of red bring some colour to the heavily-lined Elezen’s face. “We can only pray the Fury is as eager as you.” His eyes slowly shift from the astrologian to G’raha. “In executing this plan we desire to utilize every tool available to us. Tell us, Allagan, what help we may expect from you.”

All of the Elezen around the table turn to G’raha en masse; even tiny Joulet raises red-rimmed eyes to stare at him. Only Derrik and Biggs face forward, but G’raha sees Biggs sit upright the moment the word “Allagan” leaves Drachant’s mouth.

One of his worst-case imagined scenarios had gone something like this: the attention of everyone on him and not a single clever thought in his head. There is a notable silence - a gap of all sound - as G’raha repeatedly blinks at Drachant, nearly unnerved by the sudden turn in conversation, before he rests his elbows on the chair’s armrests and leans forward. Eyes quickly shift from his face to his crystal hand.

“I believe some of your people can attest to my skill with a bow,” he says, breaking eye contact to nod to Leonarde, who sits halfway between Drachant and Joulet. “I have limited magical capabilities as well, but I would caution against relying on them.”

“You held a protective barrier against multiple rounds of cannonfire,” Drachant counters. “I question your definition of ‘limited’ in this regard.”

“The further I am from Syrcus Tower the less aether I have available to me. I prefer to hold it in reserve, as I did at Falcon’s Nest, rather than use it upfront.” Truth, yes, but not the entire truth. Detailing the depths of his weakness to this crowd of Elezen would be foolish. “If you do wish to use me as a tool I am afraid my capabilities are few.”

“The staff you carry is for show?”

“This far from Mor Dhona?” G’raha shrugs. “It is a very elaborate walking stick.”

Drachant sits back, his disappointment obvious, but Victoire speaks before he can turn the conversation. She jerks her chin towards G’raha’s hand. “And that? Is it also less than it seems?”

G’raha raises his right hand palm up over the table; all attempts at subtlety vanish as multiple Elezen lean forward to study it. “I suppose you could say that. This simply marks me as the tower’s caretaker.”

“You are essentially dead weight.” Victoire relaxes back in her chair and crosses one arm over her chest, the other still propped on the armrest with her pipe in hand. “Yet here you are, aiding and abetting the Ironworks for a purpose we believe can wait until the city is properly conquered.”

“If Fortemps Manor falls before we can reach it -” Derrik starts, but the astrologian cuts him off.

“What you seek in Ishgard could bring ruin to the world as we know it. We gain nothing - and risk _everything_ \- allowing any of you to accompany us.”

G’raha’s gaze slides to Laisavie, who sits with her back firm against her chair and her arms flat against the armrests. He can see her sucking her teeth with her tongue even across the table; she isn’t the only Elezen who seems wary. At least half watch Victoire with either disdain or disapproval - not a resounding number, certainly, but a reassuring one nonetheless.

“We made a deal,” Derrik says, his voice verging on a growl. “Are you backing out of it now that Falcon’s Nest is in your hands?”

Victoire waves her pipe towards Derrik and Hidden Eclipse. “We made a deal for you and your troops - not for mediocre marksmen.” G’raha narrows his eyes but continues to hold his tongue. “The Miqo’te stays in Tailfeather.”

“Ah, ah, ah.” That surprising voice comes with a wagging finger; Rholont leans forward, his cocky, self-sure grin back in place. “I recognize your authority and the point you’re trying to make, but I am honour-bound to see him escorted to his destination. If he cannot accompany the airships then I shall see him there myself.”

Victoire’s lips thin to straight, narrow lines; her fingers curl like a claw over her pipe as she tilts her head gently to one side. The voice that comes out of her is sickeningly sweet. “Honour-bound to whom, dear cousin? Is your allegiance not to the High Houses gathered around this table?”

Rholont Dzemael’s cocky grin never fades. “Of course it is, and to the Fury above all others, but you must understand the dragons hold equal power over every Soldier in my company. If Dravania demands it we must do our best to see it done.” The blond Elezen nods his head towards G’raha. “He will go to Ishgard, cousin, by dragonback if need be.”

“Who demands it?” Drachant’s frown creates more crags between his scars and wrinkles. “Who takes such an interest?”

G’raha’s heart leaps into his throat as Rholont’s grin widens. “A debt is owed, my dear Counts, and we mean to pay it. Who am I to question Vidofnir?”

The sound of air leaving the collective lungs of everyone gathered around the table would be amusing if G’raha was not gasping along with them. The legend of Vidofnir looms large in what little he knows of the Dragonsong War: she was pivotal in ending hostilities and forging an alliance between the two races. Even in Eight Sentinels the story of the majestic white dragon swooping in to save a young Elezen remains a popular campfire story; G’raha had heard it multiple times and had enjoyed the entertainment and the symbolism - yet he has always considered Vidofnir a being from history. Learning she survived the Calamity - _and_ knows of him - is a bit like having the rug swept out from under his feet and then slapped across his face.

“Vidofnir wants the Allagan to go to Ishgard?” The question comes not from Drachant or Victoire, but the Azure Dragoon himself. He stares at Rholont intently, his pale hands clasped together on top of the table. 

“She is torn, as I understand it, between paying her debt and restraining those of Bahamut’s brood who wish harm upon our guest.” Rholont’s gaze flickers to G’raha again, whose stomach does an uncomfortable flip at the name of the long-dead dragon, before returning to Rhongomiant. “The easiest solution is to escort him to his destination, ensure he retrieves what is needed, and send him on his way at the earliest possible convenience. You must understand: she does not want to rush you, but word of an Allagan in Dravania has begun to spread among the dragons. Allag is not remembered fondly by Vidofnir’s people, and I suspect our Miqo’te guest knows why.”

Bile creeps up the back of G’raha’s throat. How could he forget Bahamut? How could he ignore what destruction these ancient people - _his_ ancient people - had once brought upon the world? Had he not lived through the fall of Dalamud? Had he not witnessed firsthand the results of Allag’s manipulation and deception? 

For an Allagan historian he has done a remarkably poor job of factoring in their actions with his current goal.

“What aid can she provide us?” Drachant demands. “If she wishes this task completed posthaste surely she can muster some sort of force to see it done.”

“She can, and she will.” Rholont leans back in his chair, that easy smile again masking his face. “Not to be ridden, of course, but they will be under my command. Imagine them as harriers of a sort, intended to distract and destroy during the initial attack but ill-suited to extended bouts of combat.” One long finger points to G’raha. “They will escort him, and by necessity my squadrons, in and out of the city.” The finger curls into a fist. “If he is kept in Tailfeather, well - who am I to say what Vidofnir might do if she is not allowed to pay her debt?”

Drachant snorts as Victoire’s eyes narrow to slits. G’raha wants to tell Rholont to stop, that he had never planned to approach the city himself, that whatever debt that is owed can be repaid by other means - but the fear of losing the dragons’ aid outweighs everything else. Turning down their offer - and backtracking on Rholont’s elaborate posturing - will not bode well for any side of this argument. The very last thing he wants to do is jeopardize their mission, even if it means putting himself in harm’s way.

Whether he wants to or not, it seems G’raha will go to Ishgard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative universe musings: if the Ascians hadn't manipulated Tiamat into summoning primal-Bahamut would she have given in to rage, just like Nidhogg, and led the dragons to destroy Allag? What would present-day Eorzea look like if they'd destroyed Syrcus Tower? Would the Ascians even have allowed that to happen?
> 
> This is what my brain thinks about when I'm stuck on chapter titles, fyi. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	21. Of Broken Hearts

After catching up with his friends - and finding Derrik in the darkest mood he’s ever seen - G’raha decides to spend the afternoon searching for Rholont. 

The commander of the Skyward Soldiers is not difficult to find: a whimsical melody lures G’raha outside, past a row of Elezen airships to the northern side of Iron Feast. There he finds Rholont relaxing in a sagging hammock, one end shoved into a narrow crack in Iron Feast’s stone wall and the other tied to one of the spikes along Haietlik’s back. The large orange dragon appears to be napping in the midday sun, completely uncaring of the weight hanging from it.

“I thought you said you had repairs to do,” G’raha calls once he’s within earshot. 

Rholont stops playing his flute but doesn’t look around. “Half a dozen of my Soldiers came under fire at Falcon’s Nest. We delay for their benefit, not mine.” The Elezen tilts his head backwards, his eyes meeting G’raha’s upside down as he approaches. “I’d ask why you’re here, but I’m not an idiot.”

G’raha stops short, planting his staff on rocky ground as he frowns down at the strange man in front of him. Rholont’s self-sure attitude and open dismissal of serious rhetoric reminds him of Vahl at his most aggravating, on the few occasions when he ignored any counsel and plunged forward regardless of the danger, but where Vahl always had good intentions it is impossible for G’raha to even guess at Rholont’s motivation. “Answer my questions, then.”

“All of them? Have you a fortnight?” When G’raha doesn’t smile the Elezen sighs and drops the attitude, rolling out of the hammock and pocketing his flute in one fluid motion. “It isn’t _your_ debt, you know. You’re merely the recipient.”

“Clarify, please.”

“Your Warrior of Light - Vidofnir and the dragons of Anyx Trine owed him a debt, and instead of calling it in he requested it be carried forward to you.” Rholont crosses his arms and clicks his tongue. “It isn’t as if romance is a competition, but the Warrior of Light makes it _dreadfully_ hard to compare.”

“What do you mean, ‘carried forward to me’?” G’raha demands, feeling both flustered and compelled to deny it. “Why? The dragons owe me nothing.”

“We knew you would one day wake,” Haietlik says suddenly, her voice low as she peeks at him with one eye. “As Vahl said, one day an advanced civilization would open the tower. You would be out of place and at a disadvantage, especially if any of Bahamut’s children stumbled upon you first. Vahl requested we offer you guidance and protection should you journey to our lands.”

“May I sit?” G’raha manages to ask, pointing to the hammock, but moves into it without waiting for an answer. It is a struggle to keep himself in the flimsy thing, but the sudden roaring in his ears mixed with the frantic beating of his heart convinces him he cannot stay on his feet. “Are you telling me Vahl told _Vidofnir_ about me?”

“Is that really so strange?” Rholont asks, cocking his head to one side.

“The Scions didn’t even know,” G’raha mutters before giving his head a shake. “He asked for our relationship to be stricken from history - why would he go to such lengths but still tell the dragons about us?”

“We would remember,” Haietlik answers gently. “Easy enough to request a human author to omit a section of his writing; he will die within the century and his memories will go with him. Not so for my people - no matter what is written on the page our memories will carry forward until the end of time.” 

G’raha swallows hard. It takes him a very long time to find his tongue. “Did you know him?”

Her long head shakes from side to side. “No. I was not so fortunate - but I know what he did, and why, and it is for that reason that I volunteered to fly you north.” Her lips part in what G’raha thinks is a smile. “It is but a small token of my appreciation to carry you, who he loved so dearly, to safety.”

“I do appreciate that.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, at once frustrated by Vahl’s absence and yet - loneliness descends like a fog. More memories and fragments, more hints at Vahl’s history, more aching in his core because Vahl had done all this even after G’raha left him. 

How could he have deserved someone like this?

It is a strange place to be: trapped between mourning Vahl’s death and banking everything he has on saving him, G’raha can’t quite figure out how to think about his Warrior of Light. He loved Vahl as he was, but he loves the potential for what they might be. He misses him - but he has hopes, too. It leaves him feeling as though Vahl has simply gone away for an extended journey, traveled to somewhere G’raha cannot follow - and it cycles around to guilt. He can only assume Vahl felt something similar, knowing G’raha was alive yet unreachable with Syrcus Tower, and it hurts G’raha’s heart all over again.

“I meant what I told my cousin,” Rholont says quietly. G’raha looks up to find the Elezen watching him closely, the cocky grin replaced by a serious frown. “Most of your soldiers are coming in with our airships, but you and your immediate team will fly with me.”

As G’raha knows next to nothing about their strategy he can’t say whether he approves or not, but riding dragonback seems safer than the slower airships. 

“Haietlik will take you back to Tailfeather tonight,” Rholont says, stepping back to pat the dragon’s side. “I expect you’ll want to dine with your friends here this evening, so we’ll find you after sundown.”

Knowing a dismissal when he hears one G’raha rises from the hammock, staggering a little as the blood rushes to his head, but he manages to keep upright with the help of his staff. Learning that Vidofnir knows of him - and has plans for him - has left him struggling to find balance both mentally and literally. He makes it only a handful of steps before he spins back to the Elezen. “Could I speak with her? With Vidofnir?”

Rholont makes a clicking sound with his tongue as he gives a slight shake of his head. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but there’s no chance they’ll let an Allagan near her. Whatever you were to the Warrior of Light doesn’t mean much when you carry Allagan weapons and royal eyes.”

“Hraesvelgr’s brood trusts you,” Haietlik adds over the Elezen’s shoulder. “But the other broods…”

“I - I understand.” It is a sharp regret that pushes him to argue, to try to make them see - but he knows from recent history how much it took for them to forgive Ratatoskr’s murder. Dragons do not forget, and they do not easily forgive: Bahamut’s death is beyond G’raha’s scope to resolve. “Thank you for all you have told me.”

“Thank _you_ for coming here,” Rholont returns, sliding easily back into his hammock. He rests the tip of the flute on his chin and closes his eyes. “Two days until we’re in Ishgard - and it’s all thanks to you. I’d tip my hat if I had one.”

An oddly-sombre flute melody cuts off anything G’raha would say. He nods his head once to Rholont and again to Haietlik before turning to make his way to Iron Feast’s heavy front door, his thoughts lingering on distant dragons and dead heroes.

*

Haietlik drops him off in Tailfeather late that evening; the sun has long set by the time he makes his way through the muddy, tent-covered grounds to Eight Sentinels’ small patch of borrowed land. Three roaring fires lead him towards the companions and soldiers he recognizes; Nalza’s giant ears stand out even in near-darkness.

“Still alive?”

“It would seem so.” He stares blankly at the flames in front of them as his thoughts drift back to Rholont, and the Counts, and Derrik and Biggs. Even with the small nap he’d managed to sneak in before dinner he is exhausted, drained beyond words, and he is about to turn in for the night when he feels a light touch on his elbow. 

“Walk with me?”

W’cheruh’s strained, pinched expression pushes through G’raha’s desire for sleep. He forces himself to rouse as he nods to the machinist, allowing himself to be led away from the blazing fires and groups of soldiers and engineers. They pass rows of tents until they stand near the outer wall of cliffs on Tailfeather’s western side; though not entirely private, in darkness it manages a certain amount of seclusion. 

“Nalza said you rode a dragon today,” W’cheruh says, his attention directed towards the campfires they’d just left. 

“Twice,” G’raha admits. Were he not so tired he imagines he’d be more than a little ecstatic about the experience, but it is enough effort to focus what energy he has on W’cheruh’s strange attitude. “In all honesty the dragons were easier to deal with then the Elezen.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” the machinist replies. There’s a pause before W’cheruh turns to him, one half of his face in shadow while the other shines with a faint orange hue from the distant flames. G’raha can just see his bittersweet smile. “I’m not an idiot, you know. All the tests and secret meetings, the magic you’re using - _you’re_ the one going back in time.”

“I -” G’raha’s brain stalls, caught completely off-guard by the accusation, and the Miqo’te forges on through his silence. 

“Who else would go? Who else can control the tower and be the familiar face the Warrior of Light needs to trust this plan?” He snorts. “I guessed before we went to Baelsar’s Wall, but I didn’t want to admit you’d be leaving - it was easier, I think, to pretend the signs were coincidences.” He looks away as his voice drops. “Just as it was easier to pretend you might one day feel the same way about me as I do about you.”

G’raha’s mouth is a desert, his thoughts a wasteland, his heart a bog - after the day he’s had he cannot find the words, but he has to say _something_. It comes out as a whisper. “I never intended for you to carry false hopes.”

As hard as it is to see W’cheruh’s form in darkness, he can just see the semblance of a shrug - a passable attempt at indifference undone by the cracking, false voice that follows it. “Well. My mistake. I apologize if I’ve annoyed you -“

“No.” G’raha cuts him off. “You’ve worried me, entertained me, protected me, escorted me, distracted me - but you’ve never, not once, annoyed me.”

A few minutes of silence pass before he hears W’cheruh sigh. “W’muhj tried to tell me - he kept saying there was no way a runaway like me could compare to someone like the Warrior of Light, but I - I don’t know. Maybe I’m foolish. Maybe I wanted a happy ending. Maybe -”

“It isn’t that,” G’raha argues. “It was never a comparison; it was -” He groans and closes his eyes. Better to say it outright than dance around the words - with W’cheruh’s feelings already hurt there is now no reason not to be brutally honest. “I love Vahl. I have loved him for a very long time, and I expect I’ll love him for years to come whether I save him or not.” He opens his eyes to see half a firelit face, teeth pinching the bottom lip, and attempts to render his voice as soothing as he possibly can. “Friendship is all I can offer - but I have thought myself lucky to have you as a friend so far. I would regret losing that.”

W’cheruh lets out a shaky laugh. “That’s something, I suppose. Not what I wanted, but…” He takes a deep breath as he looks away; when he speaks again false cheer colours his voice. “Dragons, eh? What are they like?”

Playing along with the diversion and attempting for normalcy, G’raha clears his throat. “You’ll find out for yourself soon enough. It seems we will be traveling by dragonback.”

“Well, shit.” W’cheruh laughs again, a high-pitched nervous sound that he cuts off almost as soon as it starts. He looks to the sky, his jaw taut as if holding back tears. “What have I got myself into now?”

“Saving the world?”

“It’ll be one for the history books, I guess.” He sighs and turns away. “Have a good night, G’raha.”

“Wait.” He doesn’t have a plan as he reaches out and wraps his fingers around W’cheruh’s wrist, and now that he’s made contact he sees the Miqo’te’s eyebrow arch, sees the glint of hope, and realizes yet again he’s done the wrong thing. “I’m sorry.”

Stillness, sadness, the smallest touch of shame - all of it hurts as W’cheruh tugs his arm free and leaves without another word. G’raha watches him return to their campfire, hoping desperately that the machinist finds some consolation in the company of friends but knowing his painful truth will hurt for days. 

It is a long, long time before G’raha makes his way to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've now been writing this for five months. I don't know what to do with that information.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


	22. Attack on Ishgard

Dragons, as far as the eye can see. Dragons in front of him, beside him, above him, behind him; dragons with riders and without, dragons cutting through the air in perfect formation - he has never seen such a thing, never imagined so much power in one place, and somehow he is in the very middle of it. 

G’raha rides behind Rholont, arms wrapped around the Elezen’s torso as they both straddle Ullrnott. His fingers are frozen, his lips chapped, and even the goggles over his eyes cannot abate the full force of the freezing wind. The speed with which they travel, paired with their elevation, make for an intensely cold experience. 

The backdrop to the dozens of dragons soaring forward is a range of mountainous clouds, dark purple and grey monstrosities rising as far as they can see above them and to either side of the horizon. It’s a hell of a storm and G’raha can only hope they reach their destination before it hits. Below them a sheet of grey clouds hides Coerthas from view; the tails of the lowest dragons cut through it in long straight lines. 

Malms above ground, outfitted for war, destined for a siege there is no certainty they can break, G’raha feels ridiculously out of place. This is a trick Vahl would pull, a stunt from his realm of off-the-wall ideas, a miracle worthy of the Warrior of Light - what is the caretaker of Syrcus Tower doing in the middle of an Elezen war? Why did he ever think infiltrating the most dangerous city in Eorzea would be a good idea?

To his right he can see Biggs, bent over in a similar position riding double on dragonback; the Roegadyn’s teeth are clenched in a snarl as he faces down the ceaseless biting wind. G’raha hadn’t wanted Biggs to come with him - the president of the Ironworks risking his life in Ishgard? It made no sense at all - but Biggs would not be denied. If Derrik could risk his life, said the Roegadyn, so would he.

Derrik is already in Ishgard. Recruited - or blackmailed; G’raha is not clear on the specifics and Biggs refused to clarify - by the Counts, he is with a dozen Elezen airships piloting their ground troops into the city. He hadn’t wanted to do it, of course; he hadn’t wanted to go anywhere near Ishgard. G’raha couldn’t blame him: the man had watched his first wife perish in the same skies. Asking him to return would only evoke some of the worst memories of his entire life, but ask it the Elezen did. 

There is some small comfort knowing Nalza is with Derrik. Of the engineers and soldiers who came north, the majority are among the ground troops infiltrating Ishgard under Hidden Eclipse’s command. Eight soldiers travel with G’raha’s group, flying in with the Skyward Soldiers; W’cheruh and W’muhj are among them.

Thinking of W’cheruh twists G’raha’s stomach. The Miqo’te has avoided him since _the talk_ two days earlier; G’raha’s emotions play havoc with his ability to focus on the larger picture - the _much_ larger picture - but when he isn’t missing his friend he wants to apologize, to explain himself, to try to make this situation better in whatever small way he can - 

He cringes against Rholont’s armoured back and drags his focus to the present. W’cheruh will get over this, as every heartbroken person eventually does, and they will be friends once again. For now his attention must be directed to surviving whatever mess they find themselves in when they land.

Rholont suddenly thrusts his fist above his head. Dragons all around them roar in response, the sound radiating out like thunder as G’raha tightens his grip on the Elezen. A cold sweat chills him from head to toe as he watches the dragons ahead of him begin to dive, their forms cutting through the soft clouds underneath, and he wants to close his eyes but the fear of not-knowing outweighs the fear of the drop and Ullrnot’s torso tenses as Rholont curls tighter and then - 

The clouds instantly soak and freeze everything G’raha wears, forming ice crystals along his sleeves and frost on his goggles, but the grey ends in seconds and they’re out below the clouds, arching horizontal, coming into formation yet again - 

Ishgard lies ahead of them.

Stone and metal towers pierce the purple clouds, their red and blue magitek lights visible even at this distance, and crimson Imperial flags fly from all sides. Structures both ancient and recent are mashed together in a bastardized version of Imperial architecture; it is nearly impossible to see what remains of the true Ishgard underneath the dark metal that now covers it. Fire already dances from some of the tallest towers, licking the air and coiling up what wooden structures it can find; dark, oily plumes of smoke streak across the sky like unfurled banners.

This is no longer the Ishgard of legend: what lies ahead is an Imperial city. The curtain walls sport magitek cannons and Imperial-mounted turrets; magitek drones loop and spin around the city as Elezen airships navigate through heavy fire to land wherever they can. As Ullrnot rushes closer G’raha can see the dark remains of the bridge that once connected Ishgard to the rest of Coerthas: the majority of it is missing, either destroyed deliberately or collapsed over time, and G’raha suddenly understands why flight was the only option available to them.

Vidofnir’s horde reaches Ishgard before Rholont’s Soldiers do. Blasts of fire roll through the lower parts of the city and all along the curtain walls. They have learned from their attack on Falcon’s Nest: fuel lines are quickly damaged, cut off, or set ablaze with massive rolling fireballs to accompany them. Behind the explosions and dragon roars and _rat-at-tat_ of gunfire is the steady, unceasing drone of a series of alarms calling the Imperials to action. 

“Here we go!” 

G’raha has a glimpse of the melee in the old aetheryte plaza in lower Ishgard, of tall magitek creations lumbering towards blue astrologian bubbles and giant crystals of ice scattering Imperials far and wide, and then the Skyward Soldiers are within Ishgard. They split off, twisting and turning among the hundreds of thin towers and capped roofs, dodging drones and cannonfire as they make their way to the top of the city. G’raha can’t keep up and down in their proper places - from barrel rolls to tight turns to a variety of dips and plunges he has given up watching Ishgard and instead focuses on maintaining his grip on Rholont. The Elezen yells and laughs, completely in his element as his body shifts in time with his dragon.

“Up, up, up!” 

A narrow bridge looms overhead, spanning the distance between two towers, and G’raha has a glimpse of three Imperials on turrets before he feels Ullrnott’s chest expand. The dragon belches fire just as they pass over the bridge, dousing the Imperials and magitek, and as G’raha wrenches his head around he watches Ullrnott’s clubbed tail smash right through the bridge itself. Even as the flaming Imperials and blocks of stone soar through the air Ullrnott suddenly banks to one side. G’raha reflexively squeezes Rholont as the whiplash nearly rocks him off the dragon’s back; moments later he hears a roar behind them as another dragon collides with the shot that had been meant for them. An Elezen scream immediately follows, descending far below them only to be cut short by a final _crash_ into stone. 

Gods, gods, gods. G’raha wants to close his eyes but the sounds are almost more terrifying than the sights - screams, clashes of metal against metal, explosions and gunfire - so he stares, taking in the violence and the bloodshed and the death rolling across the once-great city.

Rholont leads the flight through the Pillars to the very southern end of the Last Vigil and lands amid hastily-abandoned Imperial consoles and terminals. G’raha slides numbly from the dragon’s back, stumbling as his frozen limbs refuse to immediately respond, and as he rubs at his thighs the other Skyward Soldiers begin to descend. Biggs and the Miqo’te twins land first, moving awkwardly as they step away from the dragons, and the rest quickly follow. In addition to the eight soldiers from Mor Dhona four members of the militia had joined them; only three are there now.

“Lost Gustave,” an Elezen named Maugie says gruffly, rubbing at her nose with the back of her sleeve. ”Fell off.”

G’raha doesn’t know what to say. He drags his goggles off his eyes and looks to Biggs, who stares back at him with a fierce determination that doesn’t manage to be the reassurance he needs, before turning to Rholont. Ullrnott is already spreading his wings, eager to return to the skies, and Rholont gives them all a cocky salute.

“See you on the other side!” he calls, his grin completely out-of-place with the devastation around them, and takes off without waiting for a response. The rest of the dragons and their riders quickly follow, throwing up great clouds as they go, and when the dust finally settles G’raha is left crouching with Biggs and the eleven soldiers chosen to accompany them.

They stand in Ishgard. For better or worse they have made it this far.

Impossible as it is to hide a swarm of dragons descending upon the upper city, their arrival has not gone unnoticed. The Elezen soldiers move to the north, the two men with massive axes in hand and Maugie drawing identical daggers, and the Eight Sentinels soldiers follow. The Miqo’te twins flank G’raha and Biggs as cries of, “Intruders!” and “Form a line!” are quickly followed by gunshots.

“Down!” Biggs drags G’raha to the small ledge overlooking the end of the Last Vigil; even crouched the stonework barely comes to shoulder height. G’raha peeks over the edge, peering between dead hydrangeas to watch the Elezen marauders smash into the Imperial pugilists in front, their massive attacks cleaving left and right as the Imperials dance back. Maugie disappears, vanishing even as G’raha looks at her, and then the Eight Sentinels soldiers catch up. A Viera pugilist ducks under a lance to stun its owner with a hard-hitting backhand blow; she doesn’t stay to finish the job as Maugie reappears behind the lancer, her daggers already deep in the man’s back. He collapses forward without so much as a gurgle.

Biggs and the Miqo’te twins fire rapidly over their small piece of cover while G’raha hunches beside them. Falcon’s Nest has not prepared him for this level of brutality, the snarls and groans and death rattles as Imperials fall one after another. They outnumber the defenders almost two-to-one; as eager as they Imperials may be they lack the power and the conviction. 

G’raha watches the two marauders simultaneously bring their axes down in huge overhead arcs; the taller Elezen lays his quarry flat, their helm caved in completely, but the shorter Elezen isn’t fast enough - the lancer he faces lunges just as the blow comes down. The end of the lance pierces straight through the Elezen’s chest just as the axe continues its swing onto the Imperial’s head. Both marauder and lancer fall backwards, weapons leaving their hands as they crumble to the ground.

“Morjean!” The tall marauder plants his feet over his fallen companion and swings his axe wildly from side to side. Imperials and Eight Sentinels soldiers alike scramble to put distance between themselves and the Elezen. “Come on, you bastards! Come take me!”

“Idiot,” W’cheruh hisses. He fires rapidly and another Imperial collapses. With only three remaining it is little more than butchery to clear the area; only when the last Imperial lies unmoving does the Elezen marauder finally stop swinging. He drops to his knees beside his companion, his axe limp in his hands as tears flow down his cheeks.

“Follow quickly,” Maugie whispers. She jerks her head behind her. “We’ve not much time.”

G’raha tries not to look at the bodies scattered over metal roads, at the blood spreading outwards, at the soldiers grimly wiping blades clean. He follows Biggs up the short staircase and focuses his attention on the building at the northern end of the Hoplon. 

History knows it as Saint Thordon’s Basilica, but what had once been an Elezen church is now an Imperial fortress. It rises dark and ominous at the highest part of the city, red lights winking from tall spires and a massive iron door set in the very centre after a second set of stairs. Smoke and fog obscure the highest parts of the building, masking it behind black and grey clouds - though the red lights and dim green windows pierce through the fog like eerie eyes watching from impossible heights. There are no Imperial guards anywhere to be seen, but the building itself promises dark futures; G’raha does not want to linger in its gaze.

Framing the fortress are two dilapidated manor houses, both some distance removed from the Hoplon itself. The one on the left has caved in at the front, the roof having collapsed to reveal dark, gaping rooms with some timbers still hanging loose; scaffolding and scattered tools imply construction has just begun to either remove the manor or refit it to Imperial design. The house on the right sports a hole in the second floor - perfectly-sized for a cannonball - but appears structurally-sound and untouched by Imperial hands. 

“Move, move, move!”

Keeping low to avoid any watching eyes from the silent fortress, most of the group moves past the small staircase to the house on the right; the sobbing marauder remains kneeling beside the body of Morjean. G’raha finds himself enraptured by the sky, by the intricate dance of machine and dragon passing overhead, by streaking missiles and bursts of flame; it is accompanied by a symphony of discordance, of screeching metal and thundering explosions and the unending roar of men and women fighting, screaming, _dying_. Voices rise up all around them, carried upwards from the lowest reaches of Ishgard, and G’raha can’t help but stagger at the overload. 

Nothing could have prepared him for this. 

Biggs reaches the boarded-up doorway into Fortemps Manor and throws his shoulder against it; the old wood gives way after one hit. The soldiers fan out inside the foyer, checking doors to adjoining rooms quickly and efficiently. Half of them wait at the door while half take the stairs to the second floor. 

“No one’s here,” G’raha whispers to Biggs as they wait. “No one’s been here for a long, long time.” He gestures to the floor, indicating the mess of splintered wood, crumbling stone, and ruined furniture. Wallpaper peels off the walls and shreds of paint dangle from the ceiling; discoloured squares on the walls reveal where paintings or tapestries had once hung. 

“Looted and left to rot,” Biggs agrees. “Come on.”

Following at the heels of the Elezen they peek their heads into doorways, gingerly pushing open rotting, crooked doors to look at room after room. All are tossed, ransacked by eager hands, and dust and decay has destroyed what remains. 

“Sitting room,” Biggs murmurs as they move, dismissing obvious locations. “Dining area. Ballroom. Linen closet. Study!”

Both of them move into the last room on the main floor. Bookshelves cover the side walls but most are empty; the floor is littered with leather covers and sheets of paper and vellum. G’raha steps forward gingerly, cringing as books crack and crumble beneath his feet, and makes his way across the dark room to the heavy desk on the opposite end. A large hole in the back wall left by some ancient artillery has been mostly-filled by encroaching vines; the leaves traverse the walls and ceiling in a small burst of nature among an otherwise dead space. G’raha can just see the dark purple sky and Imperial towers in the space beyond; the sounds of battle are muffled here. He forces his gaze from the crumbling, leafy wall to the mildew-covered furniture below it. Water damage has ruined the heavy fabric chair and low bookshelf; what few books he sees on the shelves turn to scraps and dust at his touch. 

The Count of House Fortemps would have kept a copy of his own book, surely. G’raha imagines boxes of unsold books gathering dust in a cellar, but it is more likely such a trove would have been used for kindling early in the war. The desk has been meddled with; four drawers on either side have all been forced open, their locks picked or ruined, and they hang at odd ends from the desk itself. Carefully reaching through the top two drawers, both of which are shallow, G’raha finds sheets of vellum - the waterproof ink still legible, if faded - and a collection of what he assumes were once quill pens, though the feathers themselves have long turned to dust. Dried bottles of ink cluster at the ends of the drawers, along with a few scraps of parchment. A quick glance at the vellums reveal accounting details - payments, orders owed, sums and losses - and G’raha dismisses them automatically. Ancient records of money long-gone do nothing for him now.

As Biggs speedreads the spines of the few books left on the shelves G’raha dives into the bottom, deeper drawers. The one on the left holds the remnants of some type of nest, droppings included, and G’raha leaves it be. The one on the right has water-damaged envelopes, wax and seals, a strange collection of mushrooms growing from the wood itself, and at the very back…

His hands shake as he gingerly pulls out a large, dark red tome. Cracked gold embossing along the front reveals a dragon mid-flight, its back arched and its tail lowered through the middle of the cover. Carefully - so, so carefully - he opens it to read the first page.

From the memoirs of Count Edmont de Fortemps  
_The Complete Edition of Heavensward: a Retelling of the Dragonsong War_

“Biggs,” G’raha calls shakily. “Biggs, it’s here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My initial goal for Ishgard was to cover it all in one big chapter, but once I passed 7000 words I realized editing the goliath it was becoming would take me until August, and breaking it up would be easier all around. My new goal is to get at least two more chapters out before 5.3 releases and I inevitably ~~drink through my sorrows~~ get lost in the implications of the lorebombs they're going to drop on us.


	23. Wherever Death May Surprise Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In canon: Biggs and G’raha read all of Heavensward within Fortemps Manor.  
> In this fic: they are smart enough not to do that in the middle of a warzone. This is my one deviation from established canon but I feel it’s minor enough to justify!
> 
> Also: new tags, spoilers in the tags, be ye warned all who enter here.

“Biggs,” G’raha calls shakily, his voice loud in the otherwise silent study. “Biggs, it’s here.”

The Roegadyn moves to the other side of the desk, his goggled eyes staring down at the faded page. “ _Heavensward_ ,” he breathes, shaking his head in wonder. He suddenly gives himself a shake and turns his hip towards the desk, simultaneously opening a heavy leather pouch belted at his waist. “The last thing we want to do is ruin it on the way home - slip it in here.”

“Indeed.” Still barely daring to breathe, G’raha closes the book and carefully lifts it. The cover creaks in his hands and he pauses, expecting the worst, but the ancient text holds together. He passes it to Biggs, who gently tucks it inside the pouch, before they stare at each other. A smile creases one side of the Roegadyn’s face and G’raha can’t help his own triumphant grin.

One step closer to Vahl. One more piece in this long, expansive puzzle.

Their relief is short-lived: Fortemps Manor suddenly shakes as an explosion reverberates everything around them. G’raha grasps the desk as Biggs wobbles back and forth; a wail from the front foyer sends them running as soon as they catch their balance. 

Every window in the foyer is filled with soldiers looking out, craning past rotting boards and shattered glass to watch something high above them. Maugie is distraught, her fingers in her hair as tears streak her dark skin; she slumps against one wall as G’raha and Biggs approach.

“What is it?” Biggs demands.

G’raha hurries to the door, joining W’cheruh just on the threshold. The machinist has his gun drawn and his eyes on the sky, and as G’raha looks up it’s easy to see why.

A black airship streaks downward, its back end engulfed in flames and dark smoke trailing behind it. He can hear cries from below, from the hundreds of Elezen who can see the fireball nosediving towards what was once the Basilica, and G’raha’s stomach sinks as he recognizes the crest emblazoned on the airship’s side.

“Count Drachant’s ship,” W’cheruh murmurs grimly. 

There is nothing they can do, not now, not from this distance. The soldiers gather behind them as the fireball grows and grows in the sky, watching wreckage fall from it as it passes overhead, and then it disappears behind the Imperial fortress’s tall spires. An explosion rocks them as the very stone beneath their feet shakes back and forth; G’raha can hear things fall and shatter behind him as Fortemps Manor creaks ominously above their heads.

“Gods,” G’raha murmurs, his heart fluttering in his chest as an inferno of flame spreads high atop the fortress. Cries echo from all around the city, shouts of denial and shrieks of rage, and there is a moment where G’raha wants to join in. To have lost their commander _this_ early…! 

A continued series of explosions on the Imperial roof remind G’raha of the night he’d taken down the Ixal’s airships; he meets W’cheruh’s eyes and watches the Miqo’te mouth, “Fuel cells.” G’raha shivers. 

“Come on,” Biggs grunts, pushing past everyone gathered in the doorway. “We have to move.”

G’raha grabs Maugie as they file out of the manor, pulling the sobbing rogue along with them on their hasty retreat south. The sounds of fighting are louder now; voices and bangs and noises G’raha can’t even begin to describe. Dragons and airships continue to light up the dark sky as blasts of fire and cannons flare bright from every direction. G’raha keeps an eye out for the marauder they’d left behind, but as they sprint through the Last Vigil he sees no sign of the man. Once they’re down the short southern staircase Biggs leads the east, towards the escape they hope is waiting, but freezes the moment he rounds the corner to the eastern ramp.

“Ah, shit.”

Below them the eastern half of what once had been known as the Pillars stretches out like food covered in flies; the entire space is a rolling, jumbling, overwhelming hive of activity. Elezen, Imperials, and Eight Sentinels soldiers clash from the base of the eastern ramp to the midpoint of the staircase just north of it, past the Arc of the Venerable and beyond, down into the depths of Ishgard as far as the eye can see. A flurry of Elezen airships hover around the airship landing to G’raha’s right: like moths drawn to a lamp, the ships fight for space with a limited amount of berths. One airship in particular catches G’raha’s eye: a blue-and-white beauty, outfitted for speed rather than warfare, has docked at the far end of the landing. He can just barely see Derrik, Nalza, and a few members of their crew scurrying about on the deck. For now the airship landing itself seems clear of Imperials, but G’raha imagines they will try to take it back once they realize how the Elezen are infiltrating the city.

Escape is close, but he knows their window of opportunity is closing.

Or - deceptively close. G’raha can’t help but notice that the path they need to take moves them directly through that mass of fighting: from the bottom of the ramp at their feet it is only a half-dozen yalms to a staircase leading towards the remnants of the departures counter at the landing, but those half-dozen yalms - and the space beyond, past the staircase itself - will not be traversed easily.

“Shit is right,” W’cheruh mutters, moving beside G’raha as their group stands just above the curved ramp down to the fighting. “Turns out getting in was the easy part.”

G’raha doesn’t reply. He’s thinking of his friends standing with him, and his friends on the airship waiting, and his friends back in Eight Sentinels. He’s thinking of Vahl and wondering if he ever ran through something like this - and, if he had, if he’d spared a thought for G’raha.

“No choice,” Biggs mutters, checking his gun’s chamber before looking grimly at the rest. “Remember where we’re headed, eh? We’re not here to win wars - we’ve got what we want, don’t we? We get through that crowd and we’re homebound.”

The soldiers around him nod, their expressions varying between fear, anxiety, and a few outright-excited. Maugie stands to one side, her face pale as she watches her people fight and die below them, and G’raha can’t help a flicker of sympathy for her. Assigned to escort them instead of fighting with the main company, he can only imagine the thoughts cascading through her head. 

“Intruders! Below the Vigil! _Intruders_!”

G’raha twists to look behind him. Half-a-dozen Imperials have just come up the western ramp and are wasting no time in closing the distance between themselves and G’raha’s group of soldiers. 

“We move!” Biggs leads the charge down towards the landing and everyone scurries to follow. G’raha attempts to grab for Maugie, who hasn’t moved an inch, when her face unexpectedly twists and she runs past him. She hides in mid-step, vanishing from view, and G’raha’s left cursing himself for not moving faster.

“She’s going to get herself killed!” he moans as he keeps pace with W’cheruh.

“One worry at a time!” W’cheruh replies. “Mine is keeping you alive.” He suddenly grins, somehow managing to channel high spirits even as they run from one crowd of enemies into a much larger one. “You’ll do the same for me, eh?”

“I’ll do the same for everybody,” G’raha retorts. His hands are slick with sweat even in the cold Ishgard air; the temptation to throw a protective barrier over his entire group is undone only because he knows it would make them targets. The few astrologian bubbles he’s seen in the distance have immediately been targeted by the Imperials’ ranged attackers - rather like donning a bright, “here are our healers!” sign, the bubbles and domes are too obvious, and therefore too risky, to use without good reason.

The Viera pugilist and an Au Ra gladiator hit the line of Imperials first, surging into the crowd around a leaf-covered fountrain with matching cries as they come upon their enemies from behind, and then the rest of the Eight Sentinels soldiers reach the bottom of the ramp. On ground level the fighting is a cluster of bodies scrabbling for any type of gain; G’raha watches two Imperials charge at an Elezen samurai, who leaps backwards smoothly before slashing at them both in a giant arcing cleave. Nearby a row of archers launch volley after volley at the Imperials making their way down the northern staircase, and a trio of healers weave glowing waves of green aether around the soldiers nearest them. G’raha sees an Imperial pugilist break through the militia lines and dart towards the healers, but before the pugilist can move within arms’ reach he is crushed into paste by three enormous blocks of stone. The conjurors barely bat an eye before returning to their healing.

“Behind!”

G’raha and W’cheruh spin around. The dozen Imperials approach from where they had just been, weapons drawn and eyes furious behind their small red masks as they begin to run down the ramp. G’raha immediately raises his staff only to have the machinist block him.

“Don’t cast!” 

“Why wouldn’t I cast?” he argues, at once flabbergasted and furious. “One Foul is all I need!”

“One Foul now, and what do we do if we need healing later?” W’cheruh fires twice; one shot goes wide but the second catches an approaching lancer in the middle of the forehead. The woman drops like a stone. “Don’t cast a single damn thing!”

The temptation to whack the machinist over the head drifts across G’raha’s mind and he lets it pass as W’cheruh pulls him into the melee behind them. They sidestep axes and swords, dancing past lancers lunging forward and marauders sweeping aside everyone with massive whirling attacks, dodging arrows and bullets and the occasional badly-thrown rock. W’cheruh almost never stops firing; his face is set in stone, his eyes furious as he brings down Imperial after Imperial.

Most of the Eight Sentinels soldiers have already ducked down the steep staircase that leads to the airship landing when a wave of Imperials cuts across G’raha and W’cheruh’s path, pushed forward in an attempt to avoid another rampaging marauder. The other Eight Sentinels soldiers are already running towards the airships, completely unaware of the danger behind them, but G’raha and W’cheruh come up short as they are suddenly confronted by a crush of Imperials within arms’ reach. 

“No magic!”

“Does it look like I’m even thinking of casting?!” G’raha yells, whirling his staff at the nearest enemy. Bone crunches as G’raha’s target takes the heavy wooden staff across the side of the head; they collapse in a heap at his feet. 

“That’s more like it!” W’cheruh slams the butt of his gun into a lancer’s nose before activating the metal box at his hip. A small machine snaps into existence next to him, kept airborne by a spinning propeller. The tiny turret immediately begins firing at W’cheruh’s targets, allowing him to inflict twice the devastation.

“I -” G’raha slams the butt of his staff into an Imperial’s stomach; the woman wheezes and falls to her knees. “Am -” He barely parries a downward slash from a bleeding gladiator, holding up his staff horizontally in both hands; the blade bites deep across his staff and G’raha yanks backwards, watching the gladiator’s eyes go wide as her sword slips out of her hand and W’cheruh’s turret shoots her in the chest. “A -” He shakes the sword loose from his staff and kicks it into the crowd, flustered and frustrated and all-together finished with this entire experience. “Mage! With _magic_ , W’cheruh!”

“Save it for later!” 

“What good is it going to do -” G’raha stops speaking as his ears pick up a distant sound. A drawn-out whistle grows louder and louder; he sees others in the crowd begin to hear it and look around before W’cheruh suddenly tackles him to the ground.

“Down!”

There is a split-second realization - a heartbeat’s worth of fear as he covers his head with his arms even as W’cheruh covers him - before the missile hits.

All of Ishgard trembles as rock and stone fly in every direction. Screams and cries of help are droned out beneath the cacophony of collapsing walls, of explosions turning ancient Elezen buildings to pebbles, of fire roaring above them. Dust and ash swamp the area, coating G’raha’s mouth and nostrils as he coughs and coughs and coughs.

When the noise dies away there is a moment of disbelief from both sides - an eerie quiet as everyone takes stock of the space around them - before once again blades clash together and footsteps run north.

“Up, G’raha.” W’cheruh’s voice sounds muffled after the blast of sound; G’raha numbly shakes his head as he pushes himself to his knees. “We’re going the long way.”

He gapes at the mess in front of them. Where the Arc of the Venerable had been is now empty sky; stone and metal litter the ground around them, with dust and fire and plumes of dark smoke obscuring anything further than a yalm. The staircase they’d seen not five fulms away is gone, smashed to shreds by the falling stone and artillery; all that remains is a dizzying drop into the abyss that surrounds Ishgard. The airship landing is hidden behind that fog of dust, though he can hear scattered voices crying his name.

“Biggs!” His voice is scratchy, choked - he coughs again and shakes his head. “W’muhj!”

“We’ve got to move,” W’cheruh orders, yanking G’raha to his feet. “There’s another staircase to the east.”

“Past the Arc,” G’raha murmurs, recalling the maps he’s seen of the city. “Through all of them.” He waves his hand in the general direction of the dust and smoke; they can just see the silhouettes of people moving through it. He shudders. “ _Gods_. Lead on.”

The road east is littered with bodies, some dead, some alive. Militia run in all directions; those going west pass them with intense stares, their weapons drawn as they plunge forward through the smoke. Healers drag Elezen from under blocks of stone and sheets of metal while captains desperately attempt to rebuild the line.

“Moving north!” G’raha recognizes that voice, though he cannot see its owner through the mess. Count Victoire is already west of him, her brazen voice cutting through even the lingering ringing in G’raha’s ears. “Form up for the next push! They’re on the retreat!”

W’cheruh and G’raha cautiously move past what used to be the Arc of the Venerable, shifting past crumbled pillars, smoking tiles, and warped metal plating. They move carefully along what remains of the short staircase: the southern half of it is nothing more than a crater. There is more fighting on the road past the staircase, more Elezen and Imperials and the occasional blue-and-white garbed Eight Sentinels soldiers fighting as the eastern road curves deeper into Ishgard. The machinist turns right at the first intersection and leads him to a wide southern staircase before coming to an abrupt halt, cursing quietly as he pulls G’raha sideways to hide behind the closest building. 

They are behind a troop of Imperial soldiers: gladiators, archers, and gunbreakers face off against the Elezen trapped on the airship landing. What remains of an ancient arrival-and-departure gate at the foot of the landing serves as cover for the Imperials, who quickly eliminate every Elezen who attempts to pass them. Between the gate and the airships there are a mass of soldiers, each fighting desperately to dodge incoming attacks and not be pushed too close to the edge. Beyond the melee are the miiltia’s archers, gunbreakers, machinists, and mages: fighting aboard airships and taking cover under low half-walls, the Elezen are doing whatever they can to thin the horde in front of them. 

The Eight Sentinels soldiers are there too: Biggs and W’muhj fire from the airship deck, while Nalza herself stands on the gangplank with her codex in one hand. The light from her ruby carbuncle darts this way and that, tearing with tooth and claw as it moves underfoot.

G’raha can’t help but stare. It is a mess, a whirling, shifting hell on both sides and he is completely out of his element. They need to move through the crush but doing so now would be suicide; however, the longer they stay the more risk there is to Derrik and the crew. Even as he deliberates he sees one of their soldiers take a bullet to the shoulder, spiraling backwards on the airship deck as everyone ducks below the low walls.

“We can’t stay here!”

“Maybe to the - hey! Damn you!” 

G’raha spins around in time to see W’cheruh flick a switch on his gun and suddenly flames pulse out of it in a great, rolling jet. The Imperials that had snuck up behind them fall back screeching, beating their armour frantically and flinging scorched masks from their faces as they do. G’raha reacts without thinking, spinning once in mid-air before thrusting his staff above his head. A sound like a chime reverberates around them as the area surrounding him is instantly awash with bright white light; the Imperials freeze, stunned by the aether holding their limbs in place, and W’cheruh carefully picks them off one by one.

“Don’t say I shouldn’t have cast,” G’raha grumbles as the last Imperial falls to the ground.

“Never even crossed my mind.”

He shoots the machinist a quick, exasperated grin before turning back to the airship landing. He can still see Nalza near the airship, her tattered cap skewed over her large ears as she inflicts poisons and miasma on every Imperial she can reach. The Elezen mages are hampered by the crush: there is not much they can do that won’t hit their allies. Sparks of small spells - little bursts of fire and ice and stone - bring down or hamper individual Imperials, but they are fighting a battle of attrition. Without reinforcements even G’raha knows this will be costly.

“You were saying something about a way around?” he murmurs, taking his eyes off the landing to watch W’cheruh. The machinist is snarling as he taps his gun absent-mindedly against his thigh, his head shaking as he no doubt comes to the same conclusion.

“Maybe further east?” W’cheruh suggests, his tone implying it’s doubtful. “Or we double-back -”

G’raha feels his heart jump into his throat as W’cheruh tenses, rising to his full height as his eyes widen. “What? What is it?” He peers back around their meagre cover in time to see the Imperials open fire not on the fighting Elezen, but on the airships behind them.

“Derrik!” He sees the mayor and the Roegadyn duck low as clouds of arrows and bullets pepper the side of the Ironworks airship. Some of the crew and soldiers are not as quick, taking shots to limbs and torsos, but G’raha’s gaze sharpens on Nalza as she belatedly realizes she’s out of cover.

An arrow clips her codex so quickly the book spins out of her hands, flipping up before vanishing over the side of the airship. G’raha sees her roar with fury as she turns in the direction of the shooter - 

The next arrow lodges in her chest.

“Nalza!” W’cheruh’s arm blocks G’raha’s full-tilt sprint forward; he pushes and punches, desperate to run even as the machinist drags him back. “ _Nalza_!” 

The Viera collapses backwards onto the deck just as Derrik pops up to pull hard on the steering wheel. The ship quickly flies away, twisting downwards and out of sight as Nalza’s ruby carbuncle vanishes.

“Let me go - let go, W’cheruh!” He squirms frantically as panic overwhelms him. “I can heal her! If I can get there -”

“They’re gone! Derrik took off! We’ll have to find somewhere else to meet them!”

G’raha goes limp; tears of frustration slide down his cheeks as he sags against the wall. He can still hear gunfire and shouts from the airship landing but his concerns have shifted. “I have to get to Nalza!”

“One thing at a time.” Still resting one arm against G’raha’s chest, W’cheruh lifts his other hand to his linkpearl. “Anyone read me? We need an extraction just north of the landing - I repeat, the Allagan needs an extraction from the Pillars! Does _anyone_ read me?”

“The Allagan, you say?”

Both of them freeze. The voice is unfamiliar, coming from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, lilting and curious and far too calm for the situation. G’raha meets the machinist’s wide eyes and together they turn around, fear pounding against G’raha’s chest as his breath becomes quick and stilted.

Tendrils of purple and black aether pulse around a narrow slit hanging in mid-air; G’raha instantly recognizes the strange, pulsing aether. The dark cat’s eye flares twice before expanding to darkness - nothingness - a complete and utter lack of everything - 

“Voidgate,” he whispers, tugging W’cheruh behind him as he takes a step in front of the machinist. “Oh, _gods_.”

The gate vanishes, leaving behind a black-robed, red-masked figure. It gently lands at the top of the stairs, a grin across the lower half of the face as the mask turns in their direction. Elezen and Imperials continue to fight behind the figure, leaving G’raha the horrible suspicion that they are the only people who can see it.

“Leaving so soon?” the Ascian calls, his high voice almost playful. “We haven’t even had time for introductions.”

G’raha sends his aether wide, stretching his mental range in a desperate attempt to reach Syrcus Tower - but there is nothing, not even a trickle. As close as they are to Mor Dhona they are still too far north, too elevated to make the connection, and G’raha’s power remains his own, limited supply.

“You are out of range, little mage,” the Ascian taunts, his head tilting to one side. “Or should I say, little _thief_?”

“Thief?” G’raha repeats. He manages to keep his voice from shaking but his knees quiver and oh, how he wants to scream. He’s eying the roads beyond the Ascian for allies, for any kind of distraction or hiding place they can dart to, but there is nothing. All he has is the wall at his back and W’cheruh. “I have stolen nothing from you!”

“Haven’t you?” The voice takes on a more sinister note, high and menacing and shiver-inducing. “Do you honestly believe _your_ ancestors made Allag with blood, sweat, and tears? Do you think it and Garlemald sprung out of the minds of mere mortals? Empires are _created_ , little thief, and your people lack the imagination. Allag was _mine_.”

“And who are you to make such claims? Another of Elidibus’s lackeys?” 

The Ascian’s grin twists into a scowl. “You wish to be so lucky. You may call me Emet-Selch, though I doubt you’ll have time to use the name for long.”

The moment G’raha hears the name - and realizes how much power this creature has - he swings his staff in a quick underhand motion. A wave of aether courses towards the man; the Ascian knocks it away with an easy flick of his wrist. The grin returns as he steps forward, as dark tendrils of power creep around the bottom of his robes and over the mantle of his shoulders, and G’raha fights the urge to moan. 

They cannot survive a battle head-on with any of these creatures, especially not _this_ one; whatever revenge he craves is folly in this place. Gritting his teeth, he hooks his left arm under W’cheruh’s and pulls him close. 

“Hold on no matter what happens,” he mutters out the side of his mouth, keeping his eyes on the Ascian. 

“You can’t take him,” the machinist hisses back. “We have to leave, G’raha, you’re too important to lose -”

“Two against one? Hardly seems fair.” The Ascian waves his hand and a bolt of darkness flies towards W’cheruh. G’raha simultaneously raises his staff, dragging forth more of his aether to create a protective barrier around both of them. The bolt dissolves against his shield with a soft _whump_ , but the strength behind it chills G’raha to the core.

He will not last much longer.

“You’re extending this by seconds,” Emet-Selch scoffs. He raises his hand again but holds it beside him, middle finger touching thumb. “You are not leaving here alive, thief.”

G’raha closes his eyes. Syrcus Tower may be too far to reach, but there still exists another means of escape. Though it has been over two centuries since he last utilized this magic it comes back to him easily, the wind whipping about his hair and clothes as his feet lift a few ilms off the ground. 

Most of Eorzea’s aetherytes are ruined or lost. G’raha knows of one that still stands: the last aetheryte he ever attuned to and the last aetheryte he ever saw in person, Rhongomiant had told him just days earlier that the aetheryte in Revenant’s Toll is still active. 

Emet-Selch quickly divines his intent; his laughter carries across the explosions and roars, the bursts of flame and calls of dragons, and above the cacophony G’raha hears the snap of fingers before a barrage of power assaults his meagre shield. W’cheruh huddles close against his side as his power thins - but G’raha keeps his focus on the spell, on the aetheryte in Mor Dhona, on the blue crystal that is their only chance of survival -

And then his shield breaks.

He senses it at the same moment W’cheruh twists in front of him. The whiplash hits him hard and there is a sliver of time where too many things happen at once - he cannot process the sounds - a roar, a scream, the mess of aether closing in as his shield shatters like crystal -

His teleportation spell takes effect before he can open his eyes. 

Darkness. Moments, minutes, he cannot be certain - but then his feet touch ground and he registers the weight in his arms.

Noise of a different kind assaults his ears. Voices cry out in surprise and alarm before hands suddenly grab him, pulling and dragging him. He hangs on to W’cheruh until a fist connects with his right cheek; the burst of pain loosens his grip and the machinist falls limply to the ground. 

“W’cheruh!”

Red Imperials, dozens and dozens of them, converge around him. Ixal watch from the high walls of Revenant’s Toll; a mixture of stone and magitek looms overhead with a familiar purple sky behind. G’raha can barely make sense of it - the crush of bodies around him, the hands grabbing and pulling - his staff is wrenched from his grip and snapped; his linkpearl pulled from his ear and crushed; they’re dragging him away from the aetheryte even as he tries to resist - 

“ _W’cheruh_!”

Too many. Too tired. He cannot cast, cannot think past the elbows in his ribs and the nails in his forearms, and suddenly he’s being forced to his knees with his arms wrenched behind his back as a tall Imperial approaches with a black sack in his hands -

G’raha takes one last, frantic look around the courtyard in Revenant’s Toll; one last look for an escape -

One last look at W’cheruh’s young, pale face, at his lifeless eyes staring skyward as blood seeps into the cracks beneath him. 

G’raha opens his mouth to scream - and the Imperial thrusts the sack over his head as a blow from behind robs consciousness from him. 


	24. All-Rounder

Water drips nearby, a constant _blip - blip - blip_ against wet stone. Underneath that is a sound like clinking chains far in the distance, metal on metal at high and low pitches, and reverberations of voices carrying through stone halls. Whether words or wails it is impossible to tell, but a ghostly chorus of sound haunts the small space around him. Beneath him the ground is miraculously dry; old, musty straw covers cold stone. The wall at his back is stone as well, layered one on top of another up to a mossy ceiling he can barely see. With no windows there isn’t much light to explore by save for what comes through the small grate on the door; though the grate is at eye level he has not yet had the courage to peer through it. A chamberpot in one corner is the only object that could possibly pass as furniture; the room - the _cell_ , more like - is bereft of anything comfortable or distracting. He has the door with its fulm-long grate and his rusting pot and the old straw beneath him - and his life, he supposes, but at this moment he feels altogether undeserving of it. 

A throbbing headache pulses from the back of his head to just behind his eyes; the large welt behind his ear is sore to the touch. He’d risked a touch of aether to heal it just enough that the damage is not long-lasting, but he doesn’t know how well-trained these Ixal mages might be: if they can sense him casting he suspects his solitude will change quite quickly, and he is not in a state for any kind of confrontation.

He’d known Revenant’s Toll was in Imperial hands even before he teleported. Hollwyda had told him so on his second day in Eight Sentinels. The risk of Imperials and Ixal seemed less extreme than the immediate danger presented by facing one of the most powerful Ascians head-on, and while G’raha knows the choice may have saved his life he recognizes it was a choice he made too late. 

Despair and regret burn across his chest. A collection of mistakes - a play of errors - a series of miscalculations revolving around underestimating their enemies had led to this nightmare. Nalza is wounded, perhaps dead; G’raha is captured far from friends and without means of contacting them; there is no way to know if Derrik and Biggs escaped, let alone how events are proceeding in Ishgard; W’cheruh is - 

G’raha twists his thoughts to something, _anything_ else. The distant dripping water pulls at his attention and he closes his eyes, counting each quiet _splat_ until his focus drifts away from memories that make him want to scream.

The one bright light and positive surprise in this nightmare has been his return to the vicinity of his tower: from his prison in Revenant’s Toll he is now close enough to draw upon Syrcus Tower’s magic. The lethargy has finally faded, replaced by the reassuring and calming presence of his strange Allagan crutch; like taking to hand a well-loved tool or wrapping oneself in a favourite cloak, he assumes the mantle of power with a gratitude and a relief that almost moves him to tears. 

G’raha could return to the tower. He is close enough now to teleport.

Except...

Seated with his back against the wall, G’raha wraps his arms around his legs and rocks gently back and forth. He presses his forehead to his knees and tells himself to go, to flee, to use the power at his grasp and return to the safety and friends that are so, so close -

Guilt keeps him locked in place. 

Hours or minutes or seconds, G’raha cannot be sure of the passing of time. Eventually he dozes off, drifting into restless, haunting dreams with familiar blank faces, with blood and screams, with himself always - _always_ \- acting too late. 

When he opens his eyes he is no longer alone. 

It takes him a long time to notice his guest. He is hungry the moment he wakes, the ache in his stomach causing him to cringe and wish for more sleep, and he keeps his eyes closed in the hopes he will fall back into oblivion - or as close as he can come when his thoughts follow him, plague him, torment him. When awake he thinks of what he could have done, but in dreams he relives his actions: his distraction that caused them to fall behind; his inability to shield the airship; his surprise and hesitation at Emet-Selch’s unexpected appearance. If he’d started casting even a second earlier...

It isn’t sound, or movement, or anything obvious that gives his company away: as G’raha opens his eyes he simply _knows_ , and as he carefully pushes himself up he registers the lone figure sitting against the wall across from him.

Legs bent, wrists resting on his knees, head tilted to one side - even in near-darkness G’raha would recognize those bright blue eyes anywhere. 

“ _Vahl_.” He chokes, caught somewhere between a moan and a sob, and shakes his head. “I’m dreaming. You can’t - I can’t -“ Even knowing this isn’t what it seems he cannot stop looking, drinking in the handsome face in front of him like a starving man at a feast: unlike the dreams and nightmares of his past this iteration of Vahl is as he remembers him on that last day, when G’raha had locked himself in the tower. “You’re a trick - an Ascian in disguise, maybe.”

“Perhaps you’ve finally gone mad,” the figure suggests sombrely. “It’s the only reason you have for staying here as long as you have.”

G’raha cringes. He doesn’t want to think about that, not now, not with his Warrior of Light - or a very good semblance of him - sitting in front of him. He presses a shaking hand against his forehead and fights the urge to cry. “Are you real?”

“Are you awake?”

He blinks. “I - I think I am.”

“If both questions are false where does that leave us?” Vahl shrugs. “Whether dream, hallucination, or otherwise, what does it matter? You’re smart enough to know you can leave this cell at any time.”

“I could,” G’raha acknowledges in a whisper. A part of him wants to reach out - to touch, finally, to feel flesh real and solid beneath his hands - but the knowledge that this is some form of illusion keeps him where he is. “If you are a dream concocted by my own imagination then you know why I have not.”

“I want you to say it aloud.”

G’raha shudders. “How do I know you’re not an Ascian?”

Vahl shifts to sit cross-legged and G’raha glimpses the axe resting across his lap, the familiar curved blade reflecting a hint of light as the Hyur settles. “What could I say to convince you? The first time we met you tricked me, beating me to the chase as you did.” The smallest of smiles twists his lips. “The first time I kissed you we were in that tavern in Revenant’s Toll - not far from here, actually.”

“I remember,” G’raha whispers. He had gone to dinner with Vahl after traversing the labyrinth, and though he knows they’d talked for hours all he can recall is the fluttering feeling in his chest when Vahl had followed him outside to say goodnight. “I kissed you back.”

“Quite fervently.” Vahl’s grin widens for a moment, caught in the same memories as G’raha, before fading. “Why are you still here, Raha?”

Whether it’s the rush of memories or his nickname uttered aloud for the first time in centuries, G’raha’s emotions overwhelm him and he cannot hold back a sob. He covers his face with his hands and presses his back firmly against the wall; hot trails of tears course over his cheeks and along his jaw before landing soundlessly on his lap. “W’cheruh.”

“And?”

“I can’t leave him here,” G’raha murmurs, wiping at the wetness on his cheeks even as more tears spill free. “I can’t return to W’muhj and tell him his brother s-sacrificed himself for me and I left him b-behind - I _can’t_ , Vahl. He deserves to be brought home.”

“ _And_?”

His voice is barely a whisper. “I’m not strong enough.”

Vahl snorts. “You? With centuries of Allagan power at your back I think you’d give even me a run for my money. You _know_ the only reason the Ascians haven’t invaded Eight Sentinels is because they can’t get past the tower. You have more power right now than ever before!”

“As a mage! I can heal and I can cast, but how far is that going to get me in an Imperial fortress? I’m not _you_ , Vahl - whatever magic I have, I’m unarmoured and weaponless. Without my staff I could barely focus a spell, let alone create a shield!”

Vahl leans forward. “Why are you a mage?”

Still caught in the bitter emotions swirling around his head, G’raha shakes his head in confusion. “The tower made me one.”

“You found an Allagan staff, didn’t you? After the rush of power when you accepted the role of caretaker, you found a staff in one of the lower rooms and assumed that made you a mage.”

“How could you…” G’raha shakes his head again, frowning hard as words fail him. “How could you know that?”

“If I’m a dream I’m part of your subconscious, Raha; please keep up.”

“I’m _trying_.” He closes his eyes and breathes deep. The memories of his first few days in Syrcus Tower are hazy: time and emotions have muddled them into a mess G’raha can only recall pieces of. “I found the staff and tried to cast a spell. It worked, didn’t it?”

“It worked because you made it work. The tower doesn’t turn its users into mages: it gives them what powers they need, what powers they think to ask of it. You needed to heal, so you learned white magic and conjury. When you came to Eight Sentinels you needed to defend against their enemies, so you learned black magic and thaumaturgy.” Vahl leans further, a fiery spark in his bright eyes that takes G’raha’s breath away. “The tower enabled you to become a white mage and a black mage because you needed to be those. _What do you need now_?”

What _does_ he need? He scrambles for an answer, already thrown off-balance by this entire scenario, and out of frustration he waves his hands at Vahl. “I need to be like you!”

The Warrior of Light actually grins. “Close, but not quite. What will get you to W’cheruh?”

Thinking of himself running through Imperial-occupied Revenant’s Toll, G’raha can think of plenty of things that will help him reach his goal - but calling in airships and a heavily-armoured military is impossible. “I’d need my staff at least, to create a shield, and then -”

“No.” Vahl cuts him off. “Right there - a shield.”

“A shield?”

“You said you need to be like me, didn’t you? But being a warrior isn’t going to get you through the soldiers outside this cell - you want to survive, not to kill all of them - so what you really need is something like me but safer.” He clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. “ _Think_ , love. You’re a protector, aren’t you? Always have been. Your first day here you made a shield! And you’ve been making them ever since.”

G’raha’s sluggish brain cannot follow these leaps and bounds, cannot see the conclusion that seems obvious to his Warrior. “But I need my staff to cast -”

“Forget the staff. Forget being a mage, forget magic as you know it - forget thinking of yourself as someone bound to the laws of magic as we know them.” Vahl shifts forward, moving his axe to the ground so he can crawl towards G’raha. “Think of the people you’ve met, the adventurers and the heroes and the protectors. Think of everything you’ve read in the tower’s databanks, everything you’ve discovered, everything Nalza and Kokoju decoded. The tower has the power to give you what you need - which is…?”

“A shield,” G’raha says slowly, understanding dawning in bits and pieces. If he’d willed himself magical powers, could he not will himself abilities of a different sort…? “And...a sword?”

“ _That’s_ my clever historian,” Vahl whispers, a genuine smile finally cracking his intense stare. “You’ll have to be quick - you’re only going to get one chance at this.”

G’raha shakes his head. Fear of the unknown, fear of not making it, fear of whatever this creation of Vahl is being wrong clouds his confidence and makes his hands tremble. His voice sounds like a child’s next to Vahl’s low rumble. “I’m scared, Vahl.”

That _smile…_ ! The Hyur sits back on his heels, love and adoration warming his eyes as he watches G’raha from just out of arms’ reach. “You’d be an idiot if you weren’t, Raha, but fear is temporary - living with the actions you take, well. _That_ lasts a lifetime.” He suddenly stands and moves to the wall, jerking his chin towards G’raha’s hands. “Go on. Tell the tower what you want to be.”

G’raha looks away from Vahl to the hands in his lap - one normal, one blue - and then closes his eyes. Syrcus Tower’s millennia of power waits like a giant mound of clay asking to be shaped - he need only reach out his hand and grasp it. He handles it clumsily, unsure of how best to manage the sea of aether at his fingertips, but as he breathes deep he thinks of Vahl and Vahl’s strength, of warriors and marauders, and to that he adds gladiators and gunbreakers - the heroes and protectors at the front of the line - and the magic begins to answer. Aether twists and turns through his consciousness, melding and shifting even as he handles it - and for the first time G’raha begins to recognize the depth of possibilities that lie at the heart of Syrcus Tower. Xande’s legacy had been one of destruction and death but in the right hands - with the right motivation - with the right knowledge -

Slowly, carefully, taking all the time he needs, G’raha begins to create. 

The change comes in a wave. Aether floods through his limbs, coursing through his veins and filling his lungs as he focuses on the magic around him. He isn’t asking, no - he’s _commanding_ , and with his mind turned wholly towards his task the tower is eager to acquiesce. In the seconds, moments, breaths it takes for him to realize the scope of this discovery G’raha finds himself smiling -

And then a weight in his hands makes him open his eyes. 

A shield of blinding white aether weighs heavy against his left arm; his crystal hand holds an equally-brilliant sword. He gapes at them both, caught off-guard by the brilliance and by the realization -

Not a marauder, no, nor even a gladiator: G’raha’s aether has shifted to that of a paladin. 

Yells and shouts beyond his cell call his focus to the present; he can hear running even as he clambers to his feet. The new armaments already feel comfortable in his hands - as though he’s done this for years, as though he’s always known how to stand and balance his weight. His heart hammers in his throat as he gives the sword a few practice swishes: balanced; well-crafted; deadly.

“The Ixal mages would have felt that pulse of aether,” Vahl warns. “You don’t have much time - remember what your goal is. Remember where home is. Remember what you fight for.”

G’raha bends his knees slightly, raising his shield to cover his torso as he tests the sword’s grip in his palm. There is no weakness anymore, no - he feels built of stone, impassible and immovable, and as the footsteps and voices grow louder he grits his teeth. “For W’cheruh.”

“For W’cheruh,” Vahl agrees. He’s slightly blurred at the edges, almost transparent, but G’raha’s focus is on the door ahead of him and the many voices beyond it. “Give them hell, Raha.”

Something hits the door hard - pounding fists, and eyes at the grate, and shadows beyond it shifting and moving and mingling - 

“He’s got a weapon!”

“Get the keys!”

“Someone unlock the damn door!”

“The keys, damn you!”

G’raha leans forward, raising his shield past his chin, and as the lock begins to clank open fury fills him. His fear and guilt are quickly eclipsed by a determination that floods him with self-righteous conviction, and any scrap of doubt is swept away even as Vahl’s shade vanishes. 

“For those I have lost,” he snarls, and then the door opens. 

“What the _fuck_ -”

The roar that escapes G’raha surprises even him. He charges at the Imperial in the doorway, his shield catching the man across the chest and sending him flying backwards, and then G’raha’s across the threshold and into the hallway. He thrusts left at an Ixal, feeling the blade bite through leather and flesh before pulling his sword free to jab his elbow into the face of the Imperial moving behind him. The man’s nose crunches inwards as he lets out a squawk but G’raha’s already moving forward, deflecting a gladiator’s blade with his shield and sidestepping whatever fool had brought a polearm to a hallway skirmish. 

“Stop him! _Stop him_!”

It’s too easy. Whether gifted by the tower or imprinted from months of following Vahl, G’raha blocks and parries, dodges and rolls, eludes and evades every attack that comes his way. If his blade cannot find purchase he uses his shield, smashing Imperials against the stone walls or catching their chins _just so_. He sees an Ixal thaumaturge begin casting at the end of the hall and his body reacts without thinking, skidding past a fumbling pugilist and a young marauder to bring him face-to-face with the mage. He flips the sword around in his hand to jab his pommel into the Ixal’s neck, cutting off his airflow and immediately silencing him, and in the time that buys him G’raha turns to lash out at the pugilist and marauder. 

The pugilist goes low, rushing forward with a flurry of blows aimed towards G’raha mid-section while the marauder is hampered by the close walls; her axe hits stone and jerks her backwards. G’raha maneuvers his shield in front of himself in time to block the pugilist, who is too slow to pull her blows. Each hit collides with his shield and she dances back with a cry, pulling her bruised knuckles towards her chest. G’raha takes the opportunity to bash the shield against her, forcing her backwards, and as she stumbles he lowers his shield to kick her square in the chest. Eyes wide behind her Imperial mask, the pugilist soars backwards into the first Imperial he’d hit. They both collapse in a tangle of limbs.

The marauder attempts to smash overhead, employing the same move G’raha had watched the Elezen marauders use in Ishgard, and again her axe hits stone. With a roar of frustration she drops her weapon and lunges at him with her bare hands. G’raha meets her with sword outstretched; she seems surprised by how easily the blade slides through her thin leather breastplate and between her ribs. Her arms collapse over his shoulders in a strange semblance of a loose embrace.

“Oh,” she gasps; G’raha feels the heat of her breath against his ear. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” G’raha murmurs, and then pulls the sword out. The regret he’ll deal with later; he has no time for apologies or guilt. He doesn’t wait to see her fall, spinning back to face the Ixal thaumaturge at the end of the hall. Having worked past his silence the beastman is hurriedly chanting under his breath, waving his short club over his head, and G’raha rushes forward. His shield hits the creature right under the chin, snapping its head back with an audible crack as his blade snaps across the beastman’s exposed belly.

He steps over the Ixal as it falls, passing beyond the hallway and out to fresh air, and stares at what Revenant’s Toll has become. The high stone-and-rock walls that had once seemed almost whimsical are now iron and heavier metals, all painted an alarming shade of red. Black magitek cannons surround the perimeter as that same Imperial decor covers the grey stone G’raha remembers: this is Ishgard compacted into a small space; this is Imperial architecture affixed over whatever had come before. He stands about halfway up the hill to what he remembers as Rowena’s House of Splendors, but the simple tents and market have been replaced by smoking forges and rows of anvils. The heavy _clank-clank-clank_ of hammer against steel halts the moment G’raha appears beyond the doorway and is quickly replaced by shouts of alarm. Imperials and beastmen react quickly as cries spread both up and down the hill, and G’raha turns his focus to the south.

The aetheryte is just as he remembers: tall and towering, unmarred by the war that marks every other landmark he’s seen since waking, and at its base…

G’raha’s emotions crystalize into something far sharper, a rage that hurts even as it spurs him forward. 

They’d _left_ him there. They’d left W’cheruh on the ground like refuse, like carrion, like - like -

A gladiator charges at G’raha from his right, moving in close before he can react. He takes a shield to the face and staggers backwards, shaking his head even as he parries the man’s sword once, twice, thrice before they break apart and begin circling. He spits blood, his lips already throbbing from the hit, and leaps forward to clash his shield against the gladiator’s. The man holds fast, growling at him over the edge, and G’raha snaps forward to headbutt him. The Imperial staggers back howling, blood dripping from his lip where his teeth had punctured skin, and G’raha spins in a circle that both moves him forward and slashes directly across the man’s face. The gladiator’s howls rise in volume as he falls to his knees and suddenly there are alarms filling the air, the sounds of magitek whirring to life, pistols cocking and thundering footsteps - 

Only one chance. He cannot hesitate now.

Dozens of Imperials converge towards him as Ixal mages begin to chant. G’raha ducks under the first axe to come his way and charges down the hill, zooming past slow-to-react soldiers until the crush becomes too thick to run through. He slams his sword into the ground, sending waves of blue aether up and knocking back the crowd, but there are still yalms between him and W’cheruh and the Imperials are swarming - 

Giving one more roar, G’raha waves his sword in front of him before bringing his shield up to cover his face. As he thrusts his blade skyward he channels his new form of aether into nearly a dozen magical barriers all around him, protecting, covering, hiding his form behind scintillating translucent shields. He sprints the last few yalms towards the aetheryte, shoving Imperials this way and that as their blows bounce off his magical protection, and once he’s within fulms of W’cheruh he drops into a feet-first slide.

Shouts of rage and confusion, blaring alarum, feet pounding the stone as enemies close in on all sides - G’raha ignores it all. His left hand grasps W’cheruh’s cold wrist and he directs his aether south. A heavy axe cleaves down towards his face just as G’raha closes his eyes.

They vanish with a quiet _pop_ , leaving Revenant’s Toll far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, and I hope 5.3 goes well for everyone!


	25. What Remains of You (When You're Gone)

G’raha stands on Eight Sentinels’ northern wall. Mor Dhona spreads out below him, a rainbow of pastels scattered with twisted trees and ancient roads, a space void of life right up until it reaches the hideous red walls of Revenant’s Toll.

He keeps reminding himself that he can count on two hands how many days he has been away from Eight Sentinels; that spring has only just begun to turn to summer; that little has changed since he flew to Dravania. The people in Eight Sentinels have no idea of the war raging to the north, of the lives lost or the cost they have paid, and standing there, the sun heating the back of his neck and the voices of children not far off, G’raha has little desire to tell anyone.

Hollwyda already knows. She’d spoken with him as soon as he awoke, had commandeered his private room in the healers’ quarters to demand information.

“Demand” may be overly harsh - G’raha is still impressed by the restraint she showed in letting him sleep as long as he did. To appear at the foot of Syrcus Tower with a glowing sword in one hand, W’cheruh’s body in the other, and no sign of Derrik or Biggs? It’s a wonder Hollwyda hadn’t begun marching north the moment she saw him.

It has been two days since he escaped Revenant’s Toll. Since then they have only heard scattered news from the north; the distance has rendered their linkpearls unreliable. As great a relief as it is to know that Biggs and Derrik are still alive it is intensely frustrating to no longer be with them. Whether they returned to Dravania or remain in Ishgard is unknown, only that they are still assisting the Elezen in some way.

G’raha had spent his first day recuperating in the healers’ quarters under the watchful eye of a Xaela named Behlmi. There hadn’t been much in the way of actual healing required, but G’raha had slept for almost twelve hours before waking to devour a platter of thick, hearty food. He’d acquired a few scrapes, cuts, and a collection of bruises, but Behlmi had decided they weren’t worth the energy to heal. G’raha doesn’t mind; shallow scratches and a few aches are the least of his problems.

His second day has been much harder.

Chalvatot and Kokoju had been to see him after breakfast, but nothing they could say would pull G’raha from his slump. He’d listened to the Duskwight discuss the progress they’d made with the new colossus and had answered Kokoju’s questions about Dravania as honestly as he could, but whenever the conversation veered towards Ishgard G’raha would quickly shake his head. He’d diverted the topic back to their discoveries, or even the invention he and Chalvatot had finalized before he left for Ishgard: a control panel for the shield over Syrcus Tower, which only Chalvatot and Hollwyda currently have access to. It is a relief to know the panel works much the same as if G’raha were controlling it with magic; it is one small spot of good news amongst a flurry of negativity.

He’d spent lunch with Kokoju and her wife, listening to the oil-stained Dolala work through her theories concerning a moveable aetheryte, but his attention had been elsewhere. Seeing everyone go about their business, calm and contained, laughing and gossiping, worrying about nothing more than the day’s meal, should have been reassuring - shouldn’t it? The world goes on, regardless of the battles fought and the lives lost, and isn’t that why he fights? Isn’t that why any soldier does his duty, any captain rises through the ranks, any hero takes the risk?

Isn’t that why Vahl had done what he did? To ensure ordinary lives kept being ordinary?

Whatever G’raha tells himself it is hard to connect with the friends around him. How does he return to normal when W’cheruh’s blood stains the cobblestones of Revenant’s Toll?

He’s been staring at Revenant's Toll's distant walls for quite some time. Hollwyda had told him that Ixal airships had scouted all of Mor Dhona after G’raha had suddenly appeared at the tower, but the shield over Eight Sentinels had kept them out. G’raha doubts they'll be content to leave Eight Sentinels alone for long, but for now there is no activity over the distant fortress.

“G’raha.” Hollwyda’s voice is low and calm, a warning as she approaches to guarantee he doesn’t startle. 

“Any news?” He’s asked her the same question every chance he has to see her, and as eager as he is for an answer he dreads it, too.

“Yes.”

He spins to face her, his heart pounding. He finds himself reaching for his staff and halting awkwardly with his hand half-raised; he has not yet returned to the tower to search for a new one.

“They’ve started their return flight to Eight Sentinels,” she continues quietly. “Since they’re giving Revenant’s Toll a wide berth we expect them to arrive sometime after sunset.” She pauses before grimacing. “I told Derrik about W’cheruh.”

G’raha looks away. He does not trust himself to speak, so instead waits for her to continue - but what comes next makes it no better.

“They were unable to save Nalza. I’m sorry, G’raha.”

He chokes and quickly covers his mouth with his fist, pressing his teeth hard into his skin in the hopes the physical pain will distract from the turmoil tearing through him. If he closes his eyes he can see her face before she fell, the anger and determination quickly changing to shock and pain, and - 

Hollwyda’s arms are suddenly around him and he gives in to that comfort, wrapping his arms around her torso as the tears come hot and fast. 

“No one who went north was not aware of the risks,” she says quietly. “They chose their paths, as we continue to choose ours.”

“But if I had not asked -” 

“No.” She grabs his shoulders in her hands and takes a step back, bending forward to look him in the eyes. “I know how easy it can be to fall into the habit of blaming oneself when things go awry - I’m the bloody Captain of the Guard, G’raha. If I spent every moment regretting my soldiers’ deaths I would never leave my bed.”

“I’ve never lost someone - like that,” he finishes half-heartedly, cringing away from giving voice to the words. “I’ve never watched…”

“Do not think of them as they were in that instant. Remember them as they were in life - as they were in their greatest moments. You’ll go mad from grief if you choose the other route.”

He nods, understanding the wisdom in her words even as his guilt continues to pull at him. Desperate to think of anything else, he wipes at his eyes and attempts a smile. “Silly of me to focus on two lives, I suppose, when so many more were lost. I - I can’t imagine how Vahl did it.”

Hollwyda tilts her head to one side. “Did what?”

“Kept going - kept on fighting, even after losing so many.” G’raha frowns and thinks back to the names Vahl had told him. “I didn’t know them well, not really - a Scion named Moenbryda, a highlander in the Crystal Braves, even Doga and Unei in the World of Darkness. There were others, after I - after I left. Some I met, and some I didn’t, but they were still Vahl’s friends and companions. I don’t imagine it was easy for him to lose them.”

“No, I don’t imagine it was.” She lets go of his shoulders and stands upright, giving him a small encouraging smile before she suddenly grimaces again. “Ah, I almost forgot: though we’re holding off on the funeral until his brother’s back, we buried W’cheruh in Syrcus Trench this morning. Let me know if you would like an escort before the others return home - I understand if this is something you’d rather do alone.”

“I…” G’raha’s voice trails off. No part of him wants to stand over W’cheruh’s grave in the dark, damp space that is Syrcus Trench. With or without other people he cannot pretend he is eager to confront what awaits him, and yet… “Where is Vahl buried?”

“The same place you’ve likely already guessed,” she says, not unkindly. “Vahl and the Scions rest in Syrcus Trench, too.”

So close - all this time, even while he yet slumbered, Vahl was just a stone’s throw away. He glances down at his crystal hand - at the blue that is steadily making its way over his wrist and up his forearm - and clenches his fingers into a fist. 

“I believe I would like that escort now, if you have the soldiers to spare.”

She smiles. “Of course.”

*

Trepidation, nausea, even the slightest crumb of fear - that and more plagues G’raha as he follows Hollwyda’s group of soldiers down into Syrcus Trench. A light mist cloaks the air with the faintest touch of silver; it is an eerie, uncomfortable place and they have yet to even reach the cemetery.

Hollwyda had been apologetic about the half-dozen soldiers she sent with G’raha, but after coming through Ishgard alive he has a better understanding of how dangerous the world outside his protective barrier truly is. Imperials and Ixal are inconsequential when Ascians wait beyond their doors; G’raha will gladly take the escort, though in his heart he knows no amount of soldiers will stop what Emet-Selch and Elidibus are capable of.

The Trench is a deep cavern formed around the base of Syrcus Tower, rather like a waterless moat only much, much deeper. Though the outer walls are natural stone the inner walls are a continuation of Syrcus Tower’s base, made of the same material as the construction Eight Sentinels sits upon. Knowing that the tower’s stonework descends far, far below what G’raha can see is a touch unsettling; the depth is still difficult to comprehend.

They don’t have to walk far before G’raha notices the low stone wall cutting across the floor of the trench. The wall is old, made of half-hewn stone and mortar by someone who knew the basics of what they were doing, but as G’raha begins to see the gravestones beyond he finds himself wishing the walls were high enough to block his view.

“We’ll wait here,” one of the soldiers says, indicating the gate at the edge of the cemetery. “Give a shout should you need us.”

“Of course.” Standing in the gap in the low wall, a collection of headstones and markers stretched in front of him and that ghostly mist still encroaching in this space, G’raha isn’t sure what help he might need. Courage, perhaps? Resilience? The wherewithal to stand before the graves of those he used to know and not be ravaged by regret, loneliness, and the knowledge that it should have been him?

It isn’t hard to find W’cheruh’s plot near the center of the cemetery. The soil is fresh, the headstone bright; G’raha doesn’t need to read the name carved into the stone to know who rests below his feet.

There is a finality to it that seems at once terrifying and absurd: the rectangle of earth in front of him seems too small to contain the personality inside it. G’raha is suddenly reminded that everyone he once knew - his family, his old friends, his mentors - are in similar rectangles all over Eorzea. 

It is sometimes depressing to be the survivor.

“Thank you,” G’raha says, his voice low enough to keep his words private. “For saving my life. Hopefully if - if this magic trick of ours works, it will mean a new life for this world and - and maybe a new chance for you.” He scrunches his nose as the thoughts sound far more scattered than he intended, and tries again. “I won’t waste this chance.”

Silence is his only answer, but he hadn’t expected anything else. He nods once at the fresh soil, understanding that nothing he can say will ever feel like enough, that what he’s feeling is a lifetime of missed conversations and connections and might-have-beens, before turning to look at the rest of the cemetery. Rows upon rows of old stone markers, some centuries old, lead him further through Syrcus Trench. In the dim light it is difficult to read many of them, weathered as they are by nature and time, but read them he does. 

These are the people of Eight Sentinels, the generations who have passed on as the Ironworks worked ever harder to open Syrcus Tower. Two elaborate headstones to one side bring G’raha a sudden burst of nostalgia and sorrow: the names Cid Garlond and Nero tol Scaeva catch G’raha’s eye. Nero had been an anomaly, but G’raha’s memories of the two Garleans working together give him a flash of longing. His work with NOAH - and with Cid in particular - had been a path of self-discovery he wasn’t aware he was on until it was too late to thank the man for everything he’d done. With any luck he will have the chance to thank him in person.

As he walks it becomes harder to ignore the large sarcophagus at the furthest end of the cemetery, its great grey bulk rising from the ground against the furthest wall. He begins walking lengthwise up and down the narrow cemetery rows, buying himself time as his heart beats faster and faster - but his feet lead him on to the large stone creation and the headstones beside it. Slowly moving forward, he reads each name aloud as he passes: names that hit him hard in the chest, names he recognizes, names straight from history, names upon names upon names - 

Tataru Taru.

Krile Baldesion. 

Urianger Augurelt.

Thancred Waters.

Y’shtola Rhul.

Alisaie Leveilleur.

Alphinaud Leveilleur.

He stops. All that remains is the sarcophagus at the end of the row, the ancient stone construction dominating his view, but he bows his head and stares at his feet. His crystal hand opens and closes at his side and oh, how he wants to run and deny what lies ahead of him - 

Nothing else for it.

He rigidly moves forward and finds the courage to rest his hands on the cold stone. Someone had chiseled words across the top slab; he forces himself to read them aloud.

“‘Here lies Vahl Rime’,” he whispers, misery and sorrow nearly choking what little voice he has. A list of titles takes up most of the stone, but a few smaller lines of text are just visible at the very bottom of the slab. He wipes a hand across the small chiselled marks, shifting the dust to reveal a short epitaph. “‘The light of your legacy will be our torch in the darkness, Warrior of Light: burn bright again, and live.’” 

He reads the words over and over, committing them to memory as his teeth pinch at his lip and his nails dig into the palms of his hands. Old mementos decorate the edges of the slab: crumbling flowers, tiny coins, hand-made jewelry; he is not the only person to have stood at the base of this stone coffin. Others have come to pay their respects, to wipe the dust and grime off the stone to better read the history of their fabled Warrior of Light. Shifting his gaze from the text he looks at the foot of the sarcophagus. A rusted axe rests against the stone - that familiar handle, the same blade Vahl had carried through the World of Darkness - and belatedly he realizes it isn’t the only weapon: what G’raha had taken for a strange piece of masonry along the base is in fact a two-handed greatsword, dull grey in colour but with strange symbols etched down the center of the blade.

G’raha crosses his arms over his chest, his grief somewhat waylaid by this confusing addition. Had someone left their blade in offering? It seems a strange gift to give, especially in a time of war, and particularly to one who had always favoured axes.

At least, Vahl _had_ favoured axes for as long as G’raha knew him. Who is to say that he wouldn’t have dabbled with other skills, perhaps even other magics? 

Vidofnir might know, but G’raha will not return to Dravania without good reason; burning curiosity does not justify the risk.

Perhaps Beta…

Between pondering the new weapon and reading the epitaph repeatedly G’raha loses track of time. Voices eventually catch his attention; he tears his gaze away from the sarcophagus to see W’muhj run through the cemetery gate. G’raha stiffens like a hare caught below an owl but for once the gods are on his side: W’muhj finds his twin’s grave before he sees G’raha.

It would have been easier if he’d cried, or yelled, or _anything_ , but the listless way W’muhj drops to his knees is a punch straight through G’raha’s heart.

Hollwyda follows the machinist a few moments later, crouching beside the Miqo’te to whisper something into his ear. W'muhj curls into the Roegadyn’s open arms much like G’raha had done earlier that afternoon.

Giving them both a modicum of privacy, G’raha returns his focus to the sarcophagus and the dual weapons resting at its base. If W’muhj has returned that means so too have Derrik and Biggs - but G’raha is not quite ready to face them and the questions they will inevitably ask. 

He will stay with Vahl - for a little while longer, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this a couple days early because I'm 100% sure my mind will be otherwise occupied on Tuesday!
> 
> (Also, hey, twenty-five chapters?! Whoosh! I should probably speed this thing up if I'm gonna finish before 6.0!)


	26. We Who Still Labour

G’raha’s reunion with Derrik and Biggs is mournful and quiet. Derrik wraps him in a quick, tight hug - a gesture that tightens G’raha’s throat, as simple as it is - while the Roegadyn claps both large hands on G’raha’s shoulders. He doesn’t say a word, instead just looks G’raha in the eyes with a heavy, pained expression - and that’s enough, really, for G’raha to understand. What else is there to say? They know each other well enough to understand the relief they all feel at returning home, and the grief that follows at their heels.

They gather inside the home Derrik and Hollwyda share with Chalvatot and his wife; both Duskwights bustle around the kitchen while the rest gather around the large kitchen table. Chalvatot keeps wiping his eyes behind his glasses; his face is pinched and miserable as he makes them tea. Hollwyda enters last and immediately goes to Derrik’s side, moving her chair close to his. Though G’raha cannot see it he suspects they are holding hands beneath the table.

“The Elezen is here,” Biggs says into the silence. His eyes meet G’raha’s. “The commander of the dragon riders. He accompanied us back to guarantee we were not waylaid.”

“I think he wanted an excuse to speak with G’raha,” Derrik adds with a shrug. “I wasn’t about to tell him no.”

“Ishgard, then - is it safe?” G’raha leans forward, splaying his fingers across the table. Though he will likely never step foot in the city again, so much was lost in the fight to retake it - to have gone through all that; to have lost companions and allies alike; to know his friends’ blood stains the stones atop the city - that having Ishgard remain in Imperial hands would be devastating.

“‘Safe’ is a relative term.” Biggs sits back and crosses his arms over his chest; under the bright kitchen lamps he somehow appears a decade older. “It’s in the Elezen’s hands, but for how long? And in what condition?” He shrugs. “They paid dearly for this. I know the same could be said for the Ironworks and the progress we have made, but what they attempted is on another scale entirely.”

“What he’s trying to say is that the Imperials could return at any time.” Derrik tilts his chair back, reaching with one hand for an apple on the counter behind him. “Even with the dragons I don’t see - ah!” He snaps the apple into his grasp and drops his chair back on all four feet. “Right - I don’t see them holding back another garrison of the bastards.”

“And the Counts in charge?” G’raha asks. “We saw Drachant’s airship crash, but…”

“Victoire pulled through, because of course she would.” Derrik snaps a bite off the apple as he sinks deeper in his chair. “Nearly lost her other eye, but their conjurers put her back together again. Rhongomiant made it out with most of his dragoons, but they’re not sure he’ll fight again - nasty wound on his thigh, I heard. Joulet wasn’t anywhere near the place so House Haillenarte came out of this unscathed, actually.”

“You’re forgetting Falcon’s Nest,” Biggs murmurs. 

“Ah, right.” Derrik frowns down at his apple. “Well. They haven’t finished counting casualties, which gives you a terrifying indication of the scope of it, and half of the Pillars is nothing but ash.” His gaze snaps to G’raha. “Hollwyda told you about Nalza?”

Chalvatot suddenly lets out a great sniff before turning away. Clechette gestures for them to continue as she moves to rub the Duskwight’s back. 

G’raha gives Chalvatot the courtesy of privacy and focuses on Derrik. “We saw - W’cheruh and I, I mean - saw what happened on the landing. We were on the other side of the departure gate.”

“Close,” the mayor murmurs. “So damn close. You would have seen us leave?”

“Yes - did you hear W’cheruh’s call on the linkpearl shortly after that?”

Derrik and Biggs exchange looks, but it is the Roegadyn who answers. “We didn’t hear much of anything, I’m afraid. The moment Derrik took off we were in the middle of dragons and magitek - most of us were just trying to hold on. Or help Nalza…”

“That’s probably for the best, I suppose.” G’raha looks to Hollwyda, who knows his part of this story, and she gives him a nod to continue. “W’cheruh said that ‘the Allagan’ needed evacuation over his linkpearl. An Ascian heard him.”

Everyone except Hollwyda stares at him. The apple dangles from Derrik’s fingers, completely forgotten. Chalvatot turns with the teapot held in both hands, his eyes red and his face pale. Even Clechette looks shaken. 

“Elidibus?” Biggs asks. 

“The other one - Emet-Selch.” Saying the name aloud makes G’raha cringe, as though he’s swallowed a mouthful of dirt. “He was looking for me. He - he said he created Allag.”

“He created -” Derrik bites off a curse as he pushes himself up from the table, spinning away to pace along the short kitchen wall. He gestures with the apple as he talks. “Of _course_ a bloody Ascian would be behind the greatest civilization in our entire world. Do we believe him?”

“He implied Garlemald was by Ascian design, too.”

Derrik’s face turns pale. He drops the half-eaten apple on the table and runs his fingers through his overgrown beard, shaking his head as he sits back down again. “I don’t like _that_ at all.”

“So this Ascian appeared in the middle of Ishgard?” Biggs asks, attempting to redirect the conversation. 

G’raha wishes he hadn’t. He doesn’t want to go anywhere near W’cheruh’s death - W’cheruh’s _murder_ \- but they need to know. Slowly, in as few words as he can, he tells them what Emet-Selch had done. 

“He’ll be missed,” Derrik says soberly when he finishes. “Him and everyone we lost.”

It’s silly to wish for something more from a man who barely knew him, but Derrik’s quick dismissal of W’cheruh pricks at G’raha’s patience. Surely a man who gives his life for a cause deserves more than a dozen words - but G’raha forces himself to stay silent. Now is not the time for remembrance.

“After all that you decided teleporting to Revenant’s Toll was the best decision?” Biggs shakes his head. “You had to know that was a risk.”

“Of course - but it was that or certain death.”

Chalvatot and his wife begin passing out mugs; the hot, fruity tea immediately fills the room with the smell of berries. Everyone takes a few moments to drink in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, and G’raha watches their expressions over the rim of his mug. This is not the reunion he’d hoped for when they first set out for Ishgard; nothing has gone as they planned it. Many things have gone considerably worse, and though he knows that is through no fault of their own it is still difficult to see the road forward.

“The book,” he blurts, suddenly remembering why they went north in the first place. “You have it?”

“I passed it to Kokoju the moment we landed,” Biggs replies. “I imagine she’s nose-deep in its pages already. She asked me to thank our Allagan for giving her the chance.”

G’raha’s stomach churns at the title and he looks down at his crystal hand. Being referred to as such had never bothered him before - he had even felt a touch of pride at being tied to the famous empire - but after the Ascian’s revelations being a part of Allag no longer feels like anything good. 

Is this Ascian magic he bends to his will? Were the Ascians bit players in the background, nudging certain people here and there as they were wont to do in G’raha’s time, or were they more active in the ruling of the empire? Had the Ascians supported Xande in making his pact with the voidsent?

Nalza might have known, but Nalza is gone.

A knock at the door startles everyone. Hollwyda rises first, leaving them behind as she moves to the front room. They stay silent as muffled voices drift back to them, questions and answers spoken too quietly to discern, and then the Roegadyn returns with Rholont at her side. The Elezen sports a strange lattice-work of fresh scars across the left side of his head, covering his scalp from under his jaw to the back of his freshly-shaved head. The ear itself is heavily bandaged; G’raha’s stomach rolls when he realizes the shape of the bandage is much smaller than an Elezen ear should be.

“A thousand pardons for interrupting!” The Elezen bows low, miming sweeping off a cap he does not have as he flicks one hand to the side. “I was told your Allagan mage could be found here, and err we depart I’d hoped to speak with him.” Rholont’s bright blue eyes spark with humour even now. 

“G’raha, are you sure -”

“He’s tired -”

“I don’t even _know_ you -”

G’raha rises, cutting off his friends’ protestations with raised hands. Their worry warms his heart, unfounded as it may be. “I’ll be fine. We can speak on the porch.” Seeing Derrik make ready to argue, he pats the hilt of the bright sword at his hip. “Trust me - there’s nowhere safer for me than on the tower’s doorstep.”

“I meant to ask about that…” Derrik mutters, his eyes moving to the sword, but G’raha’s already on his way out. 

Rholont follows him to the porch, gently closing the door behind him. Night has completely fallen, but some orange lamplight filters onto the porch from the home’s front windows to dispel some of the darkness. The Elezen moves down the porch steps, taking a seat in the same place Derrik usually sits, and stretches his legs into the empty road. 

“Glad to see you made it,” he says over his shoulder. His feet wiggle back and forth in his boots as though he’s tapping along with a tune only he can hear. “When Derrik landed in Falcon’s Nest without you aboard I started worrying about what I’d tell Vidofnir, but here you are! A little bruised and beaten, but aren’t we all?” He waves a hand towards the side of his head, which is mercifully somewhat hidden in near-darkness. “Flew head-first into a drone. Ullrnott says the drone flew into us, but I know he’s covering his own tail - doesn’t know how to admit his own mistakes. Can’t judge him, honestly, because neither do I.”

“Your ear?”

“The Fury gave me two, generous as she is, and the other’s working just fine.” Rholont gives a short burst of a sigh as he turns his head in the direction of the tower. “That’s your beauty, isn’t it?”

G’raha follows his gaze. Syrcus Tower glows pale blue at the end of the road, a pillar of light amidst a sea of dark night air, and as familiar as it is he cannot find it as comforting as it once was.

_Allag was mine._

He rests his forearms on the porch railing to one side of Rholont, turning his attention to the dusty road below him as he attempts to block the Ascian's voice from his mind. “I would not claim it belongs to anyone, but that is indeed the Crystal Tower of Allag. Would you like a tour?”

“If I had the time, I’d take you up on that - alas that my path draws me north tomorrow. Your people are home safe, Vidofnir will be overjoyed to learn you have survived your endeavors, and our partnership has reached its most-favourable end. My focus returns to Ishgard.”

“I am sorry to see you go, but I understand the draw of home.”

Rholont twists his neck back to grin up at G’raha. “I imagine you would.” He relaxes and leans back, resting his flat palms on the wood of the deck behind him. “Rhongomiant asked that I pass on his gratitude: we are well-aware that it was your search for that book that brought your allies north. Had we not had their aid, particularly in Falcon’s Nest, this may never have come to be.” His tone changes. “He also sends his sympathy for those you lost.”

“I appreciate that, and extend mine to you and he in turn,” G’raha says quietly. He pushes aside the thoughts of his friends and focuses instead on the one detail the Elezen need to know. “Were you aware there was an Ascian in Ishgard?”

Rholont slowly sits up straight, wiping his palms on his thighs as he keeps his gaze on the sky above. His voice is very, very quiet when he answers, “That changes things somewhat, hmm? How did you come across this dangerous piece of trivia?”

“He almost killed me.”

“Well. Fuck.” Rholont sighs and pushes himself to his feet. He hunches his shoulders and shoves his hands into his pockets as he moves into the middle of the road, kicking lightly at the dirt as he turns to face G’raha. “I best take myself to bed - that’s the kind of news Rhon’s going to need as soon as he can get it, and I want to be out of here before dawn.” He pauses as his eyes narrow. “Was the Ascian aiding the Imps?”

“Not that I saw,” G’raha admits. “His attention was on me.”

“Normally I’d say that’s a death sentence, but since you’re standing in front of me now…” Rholont shrugs. “You’re smart enough to be careful without me telling you so. I like you, Allagan, and I won’t say I’m not invested in your mission, but survival likely means staying hidden for the next little while. Be a mighty shame to have come this far and no further, eh?”

“I’ve thought the same.”

The Elezen grins. “Look at me lecturing you! Like a grand-aunt with a wagging finger!” He mimics scolding a child, one hand on his hip while the other wags his aforementioned finger in the air, before dropping the act with a sigh. “I think that’s a sign I’ve been awake for far too long. I wish you much luck in your journeys, Allagan, and I pray the Fury grants you what you seek.” With a quick salute and a wink, he turns on his heel and quickly vanishes into the darkness.

G’raha doesn’t immediately return indoors. His eyes stray upwards, not to the night sky but the barely-visible barrier separating Eight Sentinels from the world on the other side. Vahl - or his own subconscious in Vahl’s form - had mentioned the Ascians cannot pass the shield. Whether Allag started as an Ascian endeavor or was aided along in minor ways, whatever power Syrcus Tower now has seems to have surpassed the Ascians’ abilities. He doubts they would have designed it that way - why give mortals a tool that could then be turned against the Ascians when they inevitably fall out of favour - but rather than reassure him it leaves a deep pit of worry in his stomach. Their survival depends on a force that only he can control, yet he knows very little about it. Minor experiments aside, G’raha has only begun to delve into the mysteries of Syrcus Tower. If he truly wishes to turn it to his will he must learn more.

The door behind him opens and he turns to see Biggs’s silhouette obstructing most of the lamplight from within. 

“You’re alright?”

“Of course.” It’s an automatic answer and the Roegadyn knows that, but G’raha can’t muster much more than that. “Has Hollwyda told you I’ve been sleeping in the healers’ quarters?”

“No, she hasn’t.” Biggs steps out onto the porch. The president’s eyes roam down to G’raha’s feet and then back to his face, taking stock of the cuts and bruises on his arms and neck, the new weapon at his side, and the dark circles under his eyes. “Is the tower so alien to you now?”

G’raha can see the glowing tower over Biggs’s shoulder, the impossibly tall spike drawing his attention even now, and he cannot help but feel a little silly - as though he’s given a partner the silent treatment and only just realized he’d overreacted. “I’ve been avoiding it since I returned. Associating myself with it - with _anything_ Allagan - made me nauseous. But - regardless of who made it for whatever purpose, its powers have passed to me. I’m to decide how to move forward, am I not? And should I choose to use these powers to undo Ascian works, is that not worth whatever it cost to make them millenia ago?” He holds out his crystal hand; it shimmers dimly in the lamplight. “I have long thought myself an Allagan historian, but how can I claim such a title when I ignore the wealth of knowledge at my fingertips?”

“I would not say ‘ignore’,” Biggs replies. “How else would you have learned of the Allagan cubes if you did not experiment with the tower? Or the blueprints, the basement, your ability to teleport people to and around the tower itself? You may not know everything there is about the tower, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t made a good start.”

“Thank you for that kindness,” G’raha murmurs, before giving himself a little shake. “I apologize - do they need me inside?”

“They’ve decided to turn in for the night - I was just about to head home.” The Roegadyn tilts his head to one side. “Will you be returning to the healers’ quarters?”

“No.” He smiles a touch ruefully. “I must learn to distance the creation from those who created it - especially if I can turn the creation _against_ its creator. I don’t imagine Emet-Selch will be too pleased to find his Allagan masterpiece in _my_ hands when I travel through time.”

“You think you’ll encounter him on the First?”

“Anything’s possible - but once we’re there I don’t believe I’ll have to wait long for them to notice me. My tower is not exactly easy to hide.”

“Would that it was a Crystal Hovel and not the skyscraper that it is,” Biggs returns with a grin of his own. He claps G’raha on the back before making his way down the porch steps. “That will be tomorrow’s problem, eh? Rest well, G’raha.”

“You too, my friend.” G’raha’s heart is a little lighter, a touch more hopeful, as he follows Biggs down the steps and turns in the direction of his tower. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the pure joy that was 5.3 I'm still writing sad G'raha! Whelp. (And by "pure joy" I actually mean "I sobbed for the last 30 minutes of that patch but it was totally worth it".)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	27. From Tea Kettles to Time Machines

Following Rholont's early-morning departure G’raha takes himself to the deepest part of the tower, journeying through the blue haze of aether to witness the Ironworks’ biggest undertaking. A shell of a building stands in the center of that deep cavern; a long pathway leads up to it from the lowest jump-pad. The new building promises to stand some three or four stories tall, a massive construction that still does not fill the heart of the tower.

And _within_ that construction…

Already engineers and mechanics scramble to put the pieces together. The building is going up around the frame of the new colossus, both coming to fruition simultaneously. At the moment the framing is complete, with panels and wires and all kinds of technical bits G’raha doesn’t understand. Magitek flares bright as mechanics weld pieces into place; the air sizzles with the sound of it, interspersed with the sharp ring of metal-against-metal and calls from worker to worker. Showers of sparks fall from all corners, flaring orange amidst the blue aether.

What Omega used to cross the rift was not just superior technology: knowledge granted it the ability to warp the laws of that space. The Ironworks has been able to integrate some of that knowledge with their own programs, though the technology is still theoretical: G’raha has been informed they cannot test it until the colossus is complete, so progress with the portal has stalled as the engineers and mechanics throw all their weight into what lies in front of him.

Having never seen Alexander G’raha has nothing to compare this to, but it is a daunting piece of technology while still being half-built: the steel bones of the machine loom above everyone working on it; long, metal wings stretch out behind it. For now the entire frame is dark grey, but Chalvatot assures him it’ll be painted Ironworks colours as a final touch - a tribute, he says, to the centuries of engineers who carried them this far.

It is strange to pin one’s hopes on a machine. G’raha is accustomed to having a little more control than that, though he realizes that is an old-fashioned opinion. In his time machines were often faulty contraptions, knock-offs of Garlean magitek or repurposed Allagan remnants, but this future has been built from tech. The Ironworks is more than comfortable with this type of manufacturing: he has been promised multiple times that nothing could possibly go wrong.

“Here you are, Mister Tia. Sorry for the wait.”

Emund appears out of the mist-like aether with two strange mechanical creations behind him. G’raha takes a step back, staring at the seven-fulm tall magitek. At first glance they remind him of W’cheruh’s turret amplified to three times the size, but they are much more complicated than that; strange arm-like appendages dangle from either side of both mechs. “What are these?”

“Do you like them?” Emund grins up at one of the large machines as he stops a few fulms from G’raha. The machines halt just behind. “Dolala put the finishing touches on them just last week - we’re calling them Mark CLXIV Thermocoil Boilbusters!”

G’raha arches an eyebrow. “That’s quite the mouthful. Did Dolala choose the name?”

“Oh, no, no, no! Our Thermocoil Boilbusters have been refined over generations! Legend has it they started off as kettles, but that would be rather ridiculous, don’t you think?”

Staring up at the strange, buzzing magitek G’raha sees nothing that reminds him of kettles, but with the Ironworks’ history he can’t help but reason that anything might be possible. “I think that’s a debate for another day. You said you found Beta?”

The bald Hyur points up. G’raha squints his eyes at one of the Boilbusters to find Beta resting on its shoulder - _shoulder_? - like a strange metal parrot. 

“G’raha Tia,” the mechanical bug states. “It is good you have returned. Emund states you wish to question me?”

Bizarre as this situation is, G’raha can’t help but smile. “I have a simple question for you, actually. It should take no time at all.”

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Emund interjects. “Bring the Boilbuster back when you’re done with it, Beta.” The Hyur returns in the direction he came, disappearing around the side of the new building with one of the Boilbusters in tow. The second magitek remains behind, flying somewhat ominously in front of G’raha with a miniature Omega perched near its head.

Coming from the old world of Dravania and Coerthas to this fantastical, technological space is a jarring change. Grateful as he is for the wide variety of allies - with an even wider variety of talents - who have come to his aid, it is a touch overwhelming.

Pulling his thoughts to the present, he focuses Beta. “You met Vahl, yes? You told me you’d seen him briefly?”

“Affirmative,” the mech responds. “I witnessed him bid my feathered friend farewell shortly after the battle with Omega.”

“Did you happen to record the weapon he wore at the time?”

“I record everything, G’raha. Please wait - compiling data.”

G’raha shifts from one foot to the other as both blank-faced machines stare at him. The compulsion to create conversation - to ask the Boilbuster if it likes its job - is a strange, anxiety-created reaction to the silence. He doubts these machines can talk, let alone respond, but it is more than a little uncomfortable to wait without words. 

While he told himself this issue is a minor concern - even a distraction from more pressing issues - he cannot let it rest. With Kokoju still reading _Heavensward_ and the engineers absorbed with their colossus, G’raha has a little time to himself. There are so many other tasks he could be completing - decoding the databanks, practicing his teleportation magic, scouring the tower for a new staff - yet his feet led him to the tower’s basement before anywhere else.

“Compilation complete,” Beta announces, causing G’raha’s nerves to bounce around his stomach. “The Warrior of Light wore a two-handed greatsword, the customary weapon for a dark knight.”

“A _what_?” 

“A dark knight: a user of heavy weaponry and dark magic originating in Ishgard.” Beta bobs up and down from its perch as the light across its face changes from white to blue and back again. “Error: incomplete data. Would you like to run a complete search?”

“I - no. No, thank you Beta. That is enough. I’ve taken up enough of your time.” G’raha rubs a hand along his jaw, confused and conflicted and unsure where to go from here. He forces himself to smile, knowing the machine hadn’t meant to make his thoughts more complicated. “Thank you for your help.”

“You are welcome, G’raha. Have a pleasant day.” The Boilbuster spins around and returns from the direction it came, carrying Beta back into the shadow of the new building.

G’raha’s return to the world above the underbelly is fogged with strange thoughts. Vahl had hung up his axe - or at least exchanged it - for a greatsword. When, and why? What had convinced him to change? Something in Ishgard, clearly, but for someone who had disavowed every other type of weaponry it must have been a powerful argument to completely change Vahl’s mind.

 _Dark magic_ , Beta had said. Like thaumaturgy? Not _black_ magic - he would have used that word were it what he intended - but surely they are comparable? 

G’raha finds himself in his inner sanctum - his small room with the blue sphere, a space he has taken to referring to as the Umbilicus after finding it labeled so on one of the tower’s many blueprints - without any clear answers. He has never heard of dark knights, but that is not saying much: what he doesn’t know could fill several libraries and more besides. Alas that he did not ask Rholont while he was here, but something tells him even the Elezen might stumble to give him a sure answer. There had been no sign of any greatswords among their camps, Tailfeather, or Iron Feast: had the practice fallen out of favour?

A dark knight with dark magic. Ominous, for reasons G’raha can’t quite explain, but he can’t expect Vahl to never try anything new can he? Hasn’t G’raha experimented with three different types of magic just since awaking in Eight Sentinels? It would be more than a little hypocritical for him to judge Vahl for doing the same.

Vahl’s smiling face looks out from the painting on G’raha’s bookshelf with just a touch of mischief. It had been an expression G’raha had seen on his Warrior’s face less and less often, but he had assumed it had to do with the dangers they'd encountered surmounting the Crystal Tower.

Knowing he’s searching down dead-ends, G’raha storms over to the blue sphere and places his hand on top of its smooth face. Allag has answered his questions before: there is no reason not to try. He closes his eyes and delves into a sea of information, parsing every scrap he can find for references to dark magic and greatsword-wielding knights.

*

A light touch on his arm startles him out of a sea of data; he comes to himself blinking, confused, and ravenous. 

“I tried knocking,” Kokoju says apologetically from down near his elbow. “You couldn’t hear anything I said.”

G’raha gives his head a shake as he turns to face the Lalafell. It feels as though he’s roused himself from a most uncomfortable nap - as though he slept with his neck crooked and his shoulders hunched for hours and hours. “My apologies, Kokoju. I was - overly determined.”

“You are not the only one,” she says, and though she smiles there’s a sadness to it that makes him worry. She holds up their treasured copy of _Heavensward_. “I finished it.”

Adjusting his focus from one aspect of Vahl to another, he mutes his curiosity and excitement when he notices the regretful expression on her face. “Oh, dear.”

She sighs. “It is insightful, powerful, detailed - there is a wealth of information here that we would not find anywhere else.”

“But…?”

“It stops too soon - as a tale of Ishgard it does not cover anything in Doma or Ala Mihgo. We could summon Vahl from any point in this story - the retelling is detailed enough - but he would not be the force he was just before Black Rose.”

G’raha’s initial reaction is to argue - _surely_ that is good enough - but he curtails it. His fingertips press against his forehead as he closes his eyes. A storm is building in his chest and he cannot guarantee its containment, but Kokoju does not deserve to be the brunt of his emotions. “We - we shouldn’t have gone north. I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

“No!” Kokoju gently places the book on one of G’raha’s shelves before grabbing handfuls of his sleeves. “No, G’raha! There was no way to know! Where else would we have looked if not there?”

“Doma! Or the Lochs, or with the Blue Imperials! Anyone to the east!” He pulls away from her and moves to his desk, resting his palms against the wood as he tries to calm his breathing. What will Hollwyda say? Or Derrik? Biggs? What will W’muhj do when G’raha tells him his brother died for _nothing_? “We lost so many in Ishgard -”

“G’raha Tia!” The sternness in that high-pitched voice surprises him so much that he spins to stare at her, mouth agape. “Don’t you dare start with this! Doma is a ruin - we would have had less luck there than Ishgard! And you saw for yourself what the Blues have been reduced to - at the time Dravania seemed the safer option!” She stamps one foot, her tiny hands curled into fists at her sides. “You did exactly what you should have, and if you start to blame yourself I’m going to yell at you!”

“I - I think you are already -”

“I will yell _louder_!” The last word is a piercing shriek that echoes off the crystal walls and out into the rooms beyond. “We have lost _enough_ , G’raha Tia! For years and years we have lost so much - and now we’re close to saving all of it! You made one mistake - we have made hundreds!” She angrily flicks a tear off her cheek before lowering her voice. “The longer you spend lost in guilt the longer it will take us to rebound, and the more likely it will be that something goes wrong - either the Imperials or those Ascians will thwart whatever plan we have. We cannot stop to look behind us - we _know_ the road is paved with our dead, and the only way to save lives is to move forward faster.”

Silence fills the space after her words. G’raha realizes he has actually backed away from her, his hands gripping the edge of the desk behind him, and he forces himself to let go and step forward. “I’m sorry.”

“We all are,” she says heavily. Some of the ferocity leaves her, though her determination is the same. “ _Heavensward_ isn’t the answer we hoped it would be. We need to decide where to look next.”

G’raha shakes his head. If the best version of Vahl to find is him as he was at the end - just before the Empire unleashed Black Rose - then their next destination has already been chosen for them. “Biggs is never going to let me go east.”

“He isn’t going to have a choice.” The Lalafell’s expression is unusually grim. “Everything his scientists are doing is worthless if we aren’t able to find Vahl - the portable aetheryte Dolala’s working on is a back-up, not a first choice.” She places her tiny hands on her hips and nods once. “I’ll talk to him - him, Derrik, _and_ Hollwyda. I’ll _make_ them understand.”

Not one to halt a powerful force of conviction - particularly when it is on his side - he watches her storm out of the Umbilicus without arguing. Rather than follow her, he allows his gaze to rest on the copy of _Heavensward_ that she left behind; torn between disappointment and curiosity, the curiosity easily wins and G’raha takes a seat at his desk.

 _Heavensward_ may not lead them to Vahl, but if he can find even one small scrap of information that could help them - either in their work here, or perhaps in their journey to the First - then perhaps the endeavor was not wasted.

Perhaps W’cheruh and Nalza did not die in vain.

Curling his legs up underneath him, G’raha settles down to read.


	28. Smoke on the Horizon (Is There Anyone at Home?)

“I can’t believe she talked me into this.”

G’raha turns a page in his book, only half-listening to Derrik’s complaints. “Mmm.”

“She is - what? Maybe four fulms tall? Doesn’t even come up to my blasted navel. She poked my chest, did you know? Prodded me, like I was her child or - or - or _something_!”

“I can only imagine.”

“It isn’t that I’m scared of her - scared of a Lalafell! Ha! - but those _eyes_ \- they’re unnatural, is what they are. Too large for the rest of her face. Imagine how much she _sees_ \- how much she _knows_.”

Biggs slides past Derrik, who is too absorbed in his ranting to notice, and drops onto the crate next to G’raha. “How long’s this been going on?”

G’raha pauses in his reading to look around. The airship is almost ready to depart; other than the few crates he has chosen as his bench, and the soldiers who are to accompany them, everything is already onboard. Derrik still paces in front of the ship, muttering to himself as he gestures wildly; his eyebrows move almost as often as his arms do. 

“How long have we been here?” 

Biggs narrows his eyes. “Two hours.”

“Then he’s been doing _this_ for two hours.” G’raha marks his place in _Heavensward_ with a scrap of thin paper before gently wrapping the book in swaths of cloth. Only once he’s assured it is suitably protected does he place it gently in the cross-body bag at his hip. “I tried to apologize, but…”

“It’s not worth the air. He tries to keep his trips east to a minimum, but there’s no avoiding this one - for him, at least.” The Roegadyn suddenly grins, an uncharacteristic flash of humour that makes G’raha’s tail twitch in anticipation. “I won’t be joining you this time: the last of the wiring goes into the charging station this afternoon. I expect to begin running preliminary tests by dinner.”

G’raha’s heart skips. “So soon! I thought we were weeks away!” Half-elation, half-fear of the unknown: he can’t quite be sure if he wants the tests to immediately succeed. “And the colossus?”

“A few more days of welding, I’ve been told, before Chalvatot will let me start programming.” Biggs claps a hand on G’raha’s shoulder. “We’re so, so close, and we wouldn’t have come this far without you. Words will never express my gratitude.”

G’raha clears his throat as a sudden rush of emotions threatens to take his voice. As excited as he is to find Vahl, success means leaving - really _leaving_ , saying goodbye to these friends and this place and the world he has finally grown accustomed to. “It is hard to imagine we’re almost there,” he says gruffly. “It seems just yesterday you peered into my chambers and asked if I was alive.”

Biggs’s hand moves from G’raha’s shoulder to the back of his own head as he leans away, grinning awkwardly. “You know by now that I am better with machines than people. That was not the cleverest thing to leave my mouth.”

“It was not a bad question at the time.” He looks away from Biggs to the airship and the crew adjusting the sails; as glad as he is that Derrik is taking him east there is worry there, too. His pockets are stuffed with Allagan cubes; he’d spent the morning scouring the tower’s armoury for a suitable staff before meddling with his aether yet again, adjusting his own role to that of the healer he is much more comfortable as; every precaution he can think of has been taken - but the Ascians are unlikely to announce themselves before striking again. He expects they have learned from Emet-Selch’s mistake. “I cannot say whether I am ready for the next step in this journey, truth be told.”

“I can’t rightly say I have any advice, or even that I know what you’re going through,” Biggs says slowly, his gaze on the airship’s billowing sails high above them. “But if it gives you any comfort, I can promise you that we won’t forget you. We will tell your story, together with Vahl’s, for as long as we are able.”

The blush that creeps across G’raha’s cheeks is almost as telling as the choked voice that escapes him. “R-really! That isn’t necessary, Biggs!”

“Ah, not for _you_ , maybe - but so long as we here have a need for inspiration in our world at the end of time, I can’t imagine a better source than tales of Vahl and G’raha: our pair of heroes, if you will.”

“You are your own heroes,” G’raha replies stubbornly, though he cannot help but be touched by this kindness. “I am more likely to tell tales of you when I reach the First - of the heroes who opened the way to Syrcus Tower, and saved _two_ worlds with their efforts!”

“I do like the sound of that,” Biggs admits with a laugh. He stands and offers G’raha a hand, pulling him to his feet just as the last of the crew signal the end to their preparations. “Keep an eye on our Garlond out there, eh? He’s not too happy about returning to Ala Mhigo.”

“I had concluded that,” G’raha murmurs, again turning his attention to the still-rambling mayor. “Because of the Ascians, or…?”

“Because he was born there.”

*

They see the smoke long before they pass Old Gridania. 

A leaning column of rolling smoke darkens the horizon for malms. It spreads south, blown over the forests of Gridania like a fast-moving fog, but the darkest smoke originates from their very destination; like a lighthouse rising from a sea of trees the signal is clear: beware, all who come here. 

“We’re not turning back?” Hidden Eclipse voices what G’raha expects most of them are thinking. The entire crew clutches the railing on either side of the ship and along the bow, mesmerized by whatever disaster has struck their sometimes-allies along the Wall.

Derrik doesn’t reply. His face is stone, his gaze set forward; his knuckles are white from gripping the wheel. 

The airship doesn’t change course. 

G’raha is the only person aboard who isn’t either a crew member or a soldier. There are no Ironworks employees, no researchers, no citizen who is not capable of defending themselves or necessary for the operation of the airship: they are taking as few risks as they possibly can. 

This, however, they had not prepared for.

“An accident, maybe?” one of the soldiers mutters, and though G’raha can tell the man hopes that’s so he doesn’t believe it.

“If the Birdmen caught them unawares…” The crew member leaves her sentence unfinished, but it is clear she, too, doubts the Ixal have the firepower for _this_ level of destruction.

G’raha doesn’t voice his thoughts. He grips his Allagan staff in both hands and keeps his gaze moving across the horizon, watching for any sign of black-and-purple aether expanding in the emptiness.

As they approach the towering structure that once marked the boundary between Gridania and the Empire it becomes clear the fire is a few hours old; what still burns is smoldering under ashes and ruins. Whether by luck or intention the forest itself has not caught fire, but Baelsar’s Wall and the wooden shelters that once crowded it smoke with heat. The metal itself is twisted, melted, _dripping_ \- whatever power had caused this had focused intense heat on this one area alone. The ground all around the Wall is scorched black; craters mark where spells hit. Even at this distance G’raha can make out glints of light among the rubble: whatever the source of the flames, it had burned hot enough to turn the sand in the earth to glass.

Derrik lands the airship in the same place he had done weeks ago, but leaves the engine running. No Imperials come to greet them; nothing moves, save the flickering flames, the curling smoke, and the leaves at the boundaries of the forest.

Hidden Eclipse steps forward and gestures left and right with two fingers. At her signal four soldiers drop gently to the dry grass below their ship and quietly draw their weapons as they fan out to both sides of the long wall. G’raha expects _something_ to happen - someone to shout in alarm, or at least to call for help - but the only sounds are the crackling of fires, the wind in the trees, and the low hum of the airship.

G’raha shifts next to Derrik. He doesn’t want to look away from the ruin in front of him - as hideous as the destruction in, it is captivating in a way that defies disbelief - but he focuses his attention on the mayor. “We should leave.”

Derrik crosses his arms over his chest. His fiery green eyes flicker once to G’raha before returning to the wall; by the set of his jaw and the curling of his lip, G’raha knows immediately that they are not going to turn tail. “These are my people, cat.”

G’raha’s ears fall flat against his skull. Of everything the man could have said, that worries him most. “What can we do?”

A cry interrupts them. Two of the soldiers run forward, one of whom carries a soot-covered Lalafell in his arms. Hidden Eclipse immediately drops the gangplank, allowing the three of them to run aboard.

G’raha pushes past the curious and worried soldiers and crew on deck to kneel beside the tiny Imperial as the soldier gently rests him down. The Lalafell’s clothing is scorched, his hair singed, and the skin across the palms of his hands is crimson and blistered. The moment his back rests on the deck he attempts to jump to his feet, only to collapse backwards with a cry as someone touches his hands. “I’m going to need you to hold still, friend.”

“Ain’t no friend of yours,” the Lalafell growls, though he holds out his hands upon seeing G’raha’s staff. “Oh, gods, don’t take them off!”

“That is the furthest thing from my mind at this moment.” Without Syrcus Tower nearby G’raha must rely on his own aether for this, but it is a simple enough touch of healing magic: enough to lessen the burns, minimize the blisters, and turn painful palms into tender ones. “I will require bandages.”

“Here, sir.” One of the soldiers passes him a thin roll of white cloth, which G’raha quickly uses to wrap the whimpering Lalafell’s hands. Derrik kneels beside him as he does, a strange look in his eyes.

“What happened here?”

“What’s it look like?” the Lalafell snaps, keeping his gaze on his hands. “Attacked, we was, right out of the blue! Sat down for good rest and suddenly screams, alarms, a giant ass of a mess! Not a lick of warning!” G’raha finishes wrapping one palm and the Imperial grits his teeth, hugging his hand close to his chest. “Locked myself in, right? In one of the little rooms in the Wall itself, a right nice cubby for the likes of me - didn’t think they’d set the bloody walls on fire!”

“Who?” G’raha and Derrik ask at the same time; G’raha defers to Derrik, who clarifies. “Who set the fire?”

“Don’t know their names,” the Lalafell groans, shaking his head as G’raha finishes the other hand. “Don’t want to know their names. They’ve been here before! Threatened us, they did! Dominic didn’t listen! Dominic challenged them! It’s that whoreson’s fault they summoned fire and demons and -”

Derrik reaches forward to grab a fistfull of the Lalafell’s ash-covered shirt. He yanks him up and forward until they’re nose to nose. “ _Who_?”

“Get off me, get off me!” Unable to use his hands, the Imperial attempts to batter at Derrik’s arms with his elbows. “Those red-masked freaks! Twelve take you, let me go!”

Derrik drops him and stands without looking at anyone, retreating back across the airship to his steering wheel. G’raha looks to Hidden Eclipse, who has recalled her soldiers to the deck and stowed away the gangplank, but her face is unreadable. 

The Ascians were here overnight. There is no telling when they left, or where they might be going, but for some reason they had singled out Baelsar’s Wall. G’raha cranes his neck back to the treeline, expecting to see floating black bodies hovering over their shoulders, but there is no one waiting for them. The lack of any enemy is almost worse: G'raha can feel the paranoia begin to tighten his chest as he stands and raises his staff, ready to create a shield the moment he feels any fluctuations in the aether.

“To your posts!” Derrik’s voice is hoarse and his face pale, but he’s already begun preparations for take-off. “We’re leaving!”

“Oi! What about me?” The Lalafell attempts to stagger to his feet but sways, going down to one knee as he frantically shakes his head. “I don’t like flying! Gods, please don’t make me fly.”

“Derrik?” Leaving their new passenger in the company of the soldiers, G’raha rushes to follow their mayor. Fear skitters across his skin but he forces himself to keep from yelling. “Derrik, where are we going?”

“I have to find Dominic,” he murmurs. “If he had those cubes of yours he would have teleported - I know he would’ve. He wouldn’t have stayed behind.”

“Dominic?” G’raha frowns, thinking of the tall, ginger gunbreaker who’d threatened them the last time they came this far. He can’t understand why Derrik would suddenly be compelled to look for a man who had provided them only the smallest ilm of aid. “Why?”

The airship begins to move and G’raha stumbles, using his new staff to catch his balance as they rise steadily into the air. The Lalafell is already retching off the side behind them as the airship moves forward - over Baelsar’s Wall and into the decimated lands of Gyr Abania.

“We’re related.” Derrik’s green eyes flash to G’raha before focusing on the eastern horizon. “Just wait, cat. This won’t take long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to 5.3 for giving me some dialogue to work with....
> 
> We're less than a handful of chapters away from leaving the Source - I actually started writing that chapter yesterday! - and I'm so grateful to everyone still reading! Can honestly admit I did not expect to get this far. You all are lovely!


	29. With Friends Like These

Most of Gyr Abania is desolate and depressing, void of people and beasts and even vegetation. The land is dust and sand in a way that reminds G’raha of Thanalan except with pressing, overbearing heat. When they eventually begin to see roads, oil pumps, wells, and even a few collections of homes G’raha initially takes these as good signs - until he realizes there are still no signs of _current_ habitation. If people lived there recently, they are no longer nearby. 

Derrik grows more and more tense the further they fly. G’raha abandons his attempts to reason with him, though what they are flying into is anyone’s guess. His fingers keep playing with the cubes in his pocket as his eyes roam the horizon; every time he glances over his shoulder he expects a voidgate to manifest in empty space. 

He’d _wanted_ to go to Ala Mhigo. He’d wanted the chance to see one of the last places Vahl had ever been. He’d wanted to give his magic the best chance possible by finding what records these Blue Imperials might still possess. 

_This_ is not what he’d wanted.

It is only after they pass the mountain range that borders all of the Lochs that they finally see real, living people. The Saltery is a hive of activity, buzzing with people with rakes and buckets and troughs over fires; the workers stop what they’re doing as the airship flies overhead, putting hands to their foreheads to dim the blazing sun as they follow the path of the blue-and-white ship. 

“Soldiers,” Hidden Eclipse says from her perch on the starboard side. “With linkpearls.”

“They were bound to notice us eventually,” Derrik replies shortly. He glances over his shoulder to their Lalafell guest, who still has a green tint to his skin. “What about you, Mister Gobeki? Any method you have to alert our friends in the castle of our approach?”

“Didn’t have no linkpearl.” The Lalafell - who grudgingly told them his name is Juki Gobeki - has grown more dour the further they fly; rather than show any gratitude for his rescue and healing he has gone almost completely mute. He rouses as he realizes where they are. “Hey! Let me down there! Just there! Just - damn it, stop your bleeding ship!”

“I believe he has his destination set,” G’raha says quietly, watching Derrik ignore their small passenger. “You will disembark with the rest of us.”

Juki looks from Derrik’s straight back to the sand-coloured castle rapidly growing larger directly ahead of them. He begins to shake his head. “Oh, no, no. I didn’t sign up for no suicide flight. I’m not going back, you hear? Turn around!”

“What do you fear in Ala Mhigo?” G’raha asks, kneeling to look at the twitching, anxious Lalafell. 

“He doesn’t fear Ala Mhigo,” Derrik interjects suddenly, barking the words over his shoulder. “He fears what Dominic is going to do when he finds out this little fellow survived. You abandoned your post, didn’t you? That’s why you’re alive and why you were alone.” 

“Like you’d have done bloody better!” Juki spits on the deck; he tries to curl his hands into fists and belatedly remembers the bandages, wincing as he looks at his swollen fingers. “Can’t fight no magic. Can’t fight no mages. Dominic said we’d be safe. He _said_ they’d leave us alone.”

“Dominic was wrong,” Derrik says grimly, twisting on the steering wheel as he brings them over the towering walls that surround the old Ala Mhigan quarter of the city. “We’re landing.”

G’raha leaves the shaking Lalafell behind to join the soldiers at the airship railing. Ala Mhigo is a city with packed streets, tall buildings, and narrow roads. With little free space and a multitude of people the city had grown upwards since the Calamity. The additions are not immediately recognizable as Garlean in the way that Ishgard and Revenant’s Toll’s additions were; these are made of simple wood and brick, or old materials, repurposed magitek, and whatever was close to hand. A ramshackle hive of dwellings grows out of the old Ala Mhigan Quarter like a nest, taking over rooftops and connecting buildings high above the roads; wood and rope walkways and lattices clutter the air like strange man-made webs. The only clear space is the plaza they descend into: a cracked aetheryte lies toppled on its side in the northern corner, graffiti covering every facet of it. 

G’raha can’t help but stare. Compared to the might and technical ability of the Reds, the Blues may as well be children playing with sand. Even the castle - the enormous, intimidating creation that G’raha had often seen paintings of in childhood - is in disrepair: no additions or modifications have been made to its ancient exterior.

He suddenly understands why the Blues have never taken back Garlemald, and why the Reds have been content to let them have Gyr Abania. 

“Sir!”

Everyone draws weapons at Hidden Eclipse’s shout - but the band of Blue Imperials that appears is far, far different from what had greeted them at Baelsar’s Wall but a few weeks earlier. G’raha’s ears flatten against his head at the sight of the filthy, ragged group that begins to make its way out to the clearing: wearing mismatched armour and old, patched weaponry, not one of them looks eager as they timidly step towards the ship. Sunken cheeks and red, glazed eyes remind G’raha of something W’cheruh had once warned him about: the Blues deal in somnus.

“Is Dominic alive?” Derrik shouts, leaving the steering wheel behind to push towards the bow of the ship. “Is he here?”

The Imperials begin exchanging glances and muttering amongst themselves, but as more and more begin to appear - some above them, dangling from the creaking rope city or peering from broken windows, and many more at ground level - the call is repeated and carried backwards, until eventually - 

“What have you come to take from us now?”

G’raha pushes forward to stand with Derrik. The tall, ginger Imperial they’d met at the Wall stands near the edge of the crowd, one arm bound in a bloodied sling. It is hard to tell where one black eye ends and the other begins; so much of his face is a mash of dark colours he almost appears to be half-Duskwight. After all of that - and the disheveled cloak, the greasy hair, the red-rimmed eyes - perhaps the most telling difference is the lack of any weapon.

Before anyone can respond - or move to stop him - Derrik vaults from the deck of the airship, landing on hand and knee on the dusty stone beneath them. Hidden Eclipse immediately follows, her massive axe thudding into the ground as she lands beside him.

“Where is she?” The mayor storms towards the gunbreaker with Hidden Eclipse just behind him. Though most of the crowd pulls back Dominic stands his ground. 

“Derrik!” G’raha can’t run for the gangplank and watch his friend at the same time; one hand curls around the railing of the ship as the other grabs an Allagan cube from his pocket. He has no idea what he might cast as fear skitters across his skin and tightens his lungs.

“Where is she, Cericala?”

“Typical Garlond,” Dominic sneers. “Just like your father - you care more for your damn legacy than the people you left in the dust.”

Derrik lunges forward, both hands outstretched, but Hidden Eclipse moves between the two men before he can make contact. She forces Derrik back even as he fights against her.

“Just tell me she’s alive!” Derrik attempts to shove the Roegadyn off of him and fails. “Thal’s balls, you’re such a prick! Tell me -”

“Papa!”

Everything stops at that high cry. Hidden Eclipse fumbles backwards as Derrik drops to one knee, and a moment later a flurry of curly red hair launches itself towards him. Derrik rises holding a small girl, her tiny arms wrapped around his neck, and closes his eyes as he begins to murmur into her ear. 

G'raha knows this is a private momoment but he - and the crowd around them - are enraptured by the sight before them. His mental image of Derrik’s daughter had been older - at least a decade older - and discovering Derrik has kept himself away from a child _this_ young suddenly puts the day’s actions in perspective. 

Derrik finally opens his eyes as he hoists his daughter higher on his hip. “When?”

“Figured out ‘who’ already, eh?” Dominic asks bitterly. 

“We’ve got one of yours on board.” Derrik jerks his head behind him. “Sour fellow by the name of Juki. He filled us in on some of the details.”

The Imperial’s eyes snap to the airship, though the Lalafell is too short to be seen over the low walls. “Did he, now?” He raises his voice. “Juki, you swine! Get your ass down here!” Without waiting for the Lalafell to appear he directs his attention back to Derrik. “They came about midnight. Demanded we join with the Reds, said we’d played long enough in our sand castle but now was the time to put aside our differences.”

“Why come to you? Why not come here directly? Arrius commands the Blues, not you.”

“Because I met your bloody Allagan!” Derrik gestures towards G’raha and heads suddenly turn in his direction. G’raha takes a step back, unnerved by the staring eyes of dozens of Imperials. “Because they wanted me to lay a trap, Twelve take me, and like an imbecile I refused!” He spits on the ground and scowls. “And I didn’t do it for you, Garlond, so before you get your head in a tizzy get that blasted gratitude out of it. I did it for her.”

The little girl waves one hand at Dominic, flapping it quickly back and forth. “Say ‘hi’, Uncle Dom! Say ‘hi’ to Papa!”

The Imperial looks away, his face twisted with regret. “Inga would’ve never forgiven me.”

Something clicks into place in G’raha’s mind - Derrik’s relationship with Dominic, his “fiery” first wife Inga, his daughter’s ginger hair - and he lets out a quiet little, “Oh!”

“This fool made a choice,” a new voice suddenly says, and the crowd behind Dominic begins to part. An older, dark-haired Imperial strides forward, passing Dominic to stand just out of arms’ reach of Derrik and his daughter. Hidden Eclipse moves beside the mayor, her axe resting over her shoulder, but this new Imperial makes no move towards his own gunblade. Though not as tall as Dominic, this stranger’s wide shoulders and thick, bare arms render him intimidating in a completely different way. “Why is it we’re still protecting you and yours, Garlond? You’re not a part of Ala Mhigo anymore, yet _my_ people keep rushing to _your_ aid.”

“That’s a generous way to word it,” Derrik says, meeting the large man’s stare. As calm as he seems, G’raha notices he shifts his stance to put his daughter further away from the new Imperial. “Arrius van Baelsar - it’s been a while.”

“Not long enough, I’m sure.” The Imperial Legatus snorts before spitting something foul at his feet. “Why are you here?”

“Initially, concern for our tall friend here.” Derrik jerks his chin towards Dominic, who makes a nauseous expression in response. “But now that I know he's alive I might as well ask a favour of you.” 

Arrius crosses his arms over his wide chest. “Get on with it.”

Derrik turns to meet G’raha’s gaze; the Imperial follows his glance to watch G’raha, too. “My friend here needs to peruse what history you have of the Scions.” He shifts to face the Imperial again. “I wouldn’t ask were it not important.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Arrius says quietly, his low voice like gravel under thick wheels. “As I also know every second you spend in my territory is a second the Ascians might return.”

“Arrius -”

The Imperial holds up a large, calloused hand, cutting off Derrik before he can even begin to barter. He looks behind him, to the heavily-bandaged Dominic, and then around him, to the hordes of silent, watching Imperials, before finally glaring at Derrik. “A favour for a favour.”

“Name it.”

“Dominic!” The ginger Imperial moves forward as soon as his name is called. “These lovely folks will be taking your cowardly ass out of my territory. You’re going to march up that gangplank and let them fly that black-and-blue hide of yours out of Gyr Abania.”

“But sir, I -”

Arrius snatches Dominic by the front of his shirt, dragging him forward as the tall Imperial squawks in surprise. “You gave up the Wall, Cericala! You gave up _my_ fucking Wall!” He shakes the man back and forth as he roars. “Not only did you disobey a direct order, you cost us every outpost west of Porta Praetoria! And you have the nerve to call _Juki_ a swine!” He flings the man back; the crowd quickly moves out of the way, scrambling to avoid Dominic as though disfavour is contagious. Arrius doesn’t wait to watch Dominic pick himself up off the ground before pointing a thick finger at G’raha. “Come on, Allagan. If you’re here for the tour at the end of the world, I’m going to give you the finest fucking tour all my dead men can buy.”

G’raha’s skin runs cold. He does not want to leave the deck - gods, does he want anything but that - but with the eyes of dozens of Imperials upon him, not to mention Derrik and his company from Eight Sentinels, what choice does he have? They came this far for him, and if fear stops him now then it will all have been for nothing.

A small voice in his mind argues that it is common sense, not fear, that makes him want to turn tail and run - but he’d stopped listening to common sense the moment he left Shalayan. 

Being on ground level is an uncomfortable experience: he is surrounded by Imperials, by the smell of fear and sweat and filth, by dozens of people who do not care for him and owe no loyalty to him. If Ishgard had been a calculated risk, Ala Mhigo is completely unknown.

Arrius seems wider when only a few fulms away. He gestures for G’raha to follow him, and, after sparing one fleeting look at Derrik, G’raha hurries to keep up.

G’raha’s first impression of Ala Mhigo is the smell. Even after they pass the majority of the crowd there is an odour that lingers, a scent just ripe enough to be impossible to ignore. G’raha’s ears lay flat against his skull as he follows after the large Imperial; as much as he wants to stay and look - to witness what became of the last place Vahl fought for - every little glimpse convinces him he’s better off keeping his eyes on Arrius. Whether it be trash in the allies or the dazed, vacant stares of emaciated, red-eyed Imperials, G’raha’s interest in this city diminishes rapidly.

“Here,” Arrius grunts as they come around a corner. A wide road is cluttered with crates and barrels piled high over G’raha’s head. The few people he sees are soldiers, not civilians, and they all look clear-headed. “At the end of this road is a set of double doors. Inside you’re going to find the room the Scions used for meetings.” 

“Left as it was?”

“Close enough.” The Imperial shrugs. “No reason for us to use it, is there? Plenty of rooms in this bloody place without mucking about with history. You’ll find some books and papers, but I can’t say if they’ll be any use to you.”

“I didn’t think your people cared about history,” G’raha says quietly, watching the man for his reaction - which is less than G’raha expected, as he simply leans against a wall.

“We respect those who came before, but I’ll have no part in Derrik’s fool mission to revive the dead.”

G’raha thinks better of telling him he is having a part at this very moment, and instead takes the road forward. Having seen who he walked with, the soldiers allow him to pass without questioning him. Old memories, old reactions struggle to stay below the surface: had he been two hundred years earlier he would have fought against these Imperials. They are still not “safe” - not by any stretch of the imagination - but it is a bizarre reality he has stumbled into.

Inside the old wooden doors waits a dim hallway, lit from high windows and the light trailing through dust motes from the open door behind him. Each step sends up clouds of dust, softly echoing around the long, deserted hallway. G’raha passes open doors on either side - some leading to empty rooms, some dark stairways, and others cluttered closets - but he keeps walking until he reaches an archway at the far end. Cobwebs hang across the top half, forcing him to stoop as he steps into a dimly-lit space.

G’raha stands at the far side of a long, narrow room. In the center is a heavy stone table surrounded by matching, identical chairs. Old braziers and oil lamps lean against walls and clutter the floor, and long-dead plants are little more than ash and stalks in dust-covered planters. 

This had been a meeting room, once upon a time. He can imagine Vahl sitting here, speaking with the Scions - those names of the dead buried next to him - and whoever else might have been in Ala Mhigo before the Calamity. G’raha trails his fingers over the back of one of the chairs, collecting dust and cobwebs as he does, before leaning over the scattered papers, old journals, and an oversized book left open at the opposite end of the table. 

His hopes are low - of course they would be, after Ishgard - and while the papers are faded maps and scouts’ ancient reports the book proves to be a surprise. It is a short-hand history - a simple recording of troop movements, incursions, skirmishes, and the like - but he catches Vahl’s name written multiple times. With his heart beating in his ears G’raha gently flips backwards from the most-recent page. Vahl’s location and purpose are stated with basic details - who went with him, the force he faced, and the inevitable conclusion - and though G’raha doesn’t recognize some of the places and has little knowledge of what each site means it is enough - more than enough - to give him somewhere to start. 

If he cannot summon Vahl from inside this meeting room, he might as well try from the middle of a battlefield.

Arrius doesn't comment on the book in G’raha’s arms: he barely even looks at G'raha before beginning their silent walk back the way they came. As they near the plaza the crowd begins to grow again, and G’raha finds himself hugging the text close to his chest as he anxiously watches the disheveled strangers turn their way. The Imperials still ring the airship, but Derrik, Dominic, and Hidden Eclipse have moved to the foot of the gangplank. Derrik’s daughter is still in his arms, her small hands clasped tight around his neck as she watches Arrius approach. 

“Why is Dominic not on deck?” Arrius barks the moment they clear the watchers and enter open space. “Did I not say -"

“I’m going!” The ginger Imperial raises his hands over his head as he slinks up the gangplank, misery obvious on his long, thin face. “I still say you’re overreacting -"

Arrius suddenly pulls his gunblade and aims it at Dominic. G’raha reacts automatically, dropping the book to the ground so he can pull an Allagan cube from his pocket even as he raises his staff. A sparkling blue shield forms over the entirety of the airship, cutting off everyone inside from the Imperials without - which unfortunately includes himself, Derrik, and Hidden Eclipse.

“Oh, calm your tits - overreacting would be pulling this here trigger,” Arrius snarls, shooting a disgusted look in G’raha’s direction. “Dominic lost more men today than the Blues have lost in almost five years, and for what? For _what_?”

Dominic’s face flushes purple. “Inga would have wanted me to.”

Arrius rolls his eyes as he holsters his weapon. “Get out of here. All of you! Take this damn fool out of my sight and leave us to save the bloody world!”

Unable to decide if he’d erred or not, G’raha dispels the shield and scoops the book off the ground before hurrying towards the ship. Derrik waits until G’raha reaches them before leading the way up onto the airship, with Hidden Eclipse taking up the rear. Their soldiers immediately form a ring around G’raha as he steps aboard - which is strangely half-reassuring, half-embarrassing. Rather than worry about pride and displays of power he focuses on Derrik, who lingers near the railing of the ship. 

“You’re wrong about us,” he says quietly. “We _are_ going to save the world.”

If Arrius replies it is too quiet to hear. Derrik turns from the side and moves to the wheel, giving a nod to the closest members of the crew, and the familiar hum of the airship readying for take-off fills the silence. 

G’raha’s gaze settles on Dominic, who has joined Juki at the rear end of the deck. Juki wears an expression of surprised relief - he, no doubt, assumed he’d be kicked overboard and made to take whatever punishment his Imperial leaders doled out - but Dominic’s pale face is a mask. His eyes are on Derrik - or Derrik’s daughter? It is difficult to tell, but it worries G’raha either way. 

Rising out of Ala Mhigo is an unnerving, sweat-inducing journey, though it lasts barely a minute. As they fly up past the high stone buildings and the even higher wood-and-rope shanties atop of them the windows and walkways are full of Imperials: hanging from openings and peering between shutters, there are so many eyes on them - G’raha plays with the cubes in his pocket, ready at any second to pull one out should he see any sign of a weapon, but Arrius and his people makes no attempt to stop them.

It isn’t until they are far over the Lochs, past the Saltery and on, that G’raha finally takes his eyes off the sprawling city of Ala Mhigo.

“Are you alright?” he asks quietly, moving beside Derrik at the wheel. He forces himself to smile at the little girl in the mayor’s arms, wiggling his fingers at her, and is rewarded with a shy giggle before she buries her head in her father’s shoulder.

“Do I look alright?” Derrik asks tiredly. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. Today has been one ugly surprise after another, and now that the Blues are being hounded by Ascians...” He sighs and shifts his daughter to look her in the eyes. “I didn’t want you to be at risk, little lady. It’s much more dangerous where we’re going.” She just smiles and tugs on his beard, earning a tired chuckle from Derrik before he twists to direct her attention to G’raha. “This here is Mister Tia, okay? He’s a good friend and knows some pretty magic tricks. Mister Tia, meet my daughter, Lyna.”

“Pleased to meet you, Lyna,” G’raha says. He cannot help his tail twitching frantically behind him. He meets Derrik’s gaze. “She’ll be safe in Eight Sentinels. The tower -”

The resigned look in Derrik’s eyes cuts through G’raha’s reassurances. “The tower’s not going to be around much longer, cat. Soon as Biggs finishes his science project you - and it - are leaving us far, far behind.” He shakes his head as he bounces Lyna on his hip. “Don’t worry about us. What matters is you leaving, not whatever remains behind. We’ll figure it out.”

“Derrik…”

“Just - just give me this, alright?” Derrik tightens his hold on his daughter, earning a giggle from the girl before he turns his focus towards the western horizon. “I’ll add that to my pile of worries once we’re home. Sit tight, start reading your book, and we'll be back before you know it."

"I -" G'raha cuts himself off, knowing a losing battle when he sees one. "We'll talk about this later."

"Damn right we will," the mayor mutters. "Hope whatever you found in there is worth it."

G'raha stares at the book in his arms as he takes a step back. "I think so," he murmurs. Derrik isn't listening, but the reassurance sounds good - feels good, feels _encouraging_ after the overload of bad luck and bad news they've been forced to contend with. Here are the records he need to find Vahl, to find him and teleport him through the rift; the idea is at once terrifying and yet -

And yet, for the first time Vahl doesn't feel quite so far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially I planned for a lot of this chapter to take place in the Saltery, so I spent an afternoon researching how one makes salt. Obviously I scrapped that idea, but I now have a wealth of salt knowledge! I am super prepared for an obscure trivia night focusing on seasonings.
> 
> (Also, I am exhausted. I should not write notes when this tired.)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	30. You've Got to be What Tomorrow Needs

“How’s your studying going?”

G’raha collapses onto the table, moaning into the pages of his book. 

“That well, eh?” Dolala jumps onto the bench across from him, standing on it with her hands on her hips. “Didn’t you used to do this before you started to become crystal?”

“I was an _Allagan_ historian,” he groans, pushing himself back into a seated position. Books surround him, pilled half-a-dozen high on the table he’d taken over in the Ironworks’ mess hall. His own journals are scattered throughout, with a few datalogs thrown in for good measure. “I never studied _people_ \- I wanted to know about culture! Civilization! The rise and fall of an empire!” He stares down at the old ink on the page. “But this is - so _small_ a focus -”

“Reading about the Scions?”

“Maybe it’s the author,” G’raha says, picking up the thin book between two fingers and holding it at a distance, much like he would a smelly rag. “Maybe I just need to read something written by someone with talent - with _gusto_.”

Dolala arches an eyebrow. “Do historians ever write with gusto?”

“I would’ve,” he says grumpily, dropping the book so he can rest his forehead in his hands. “If I’d ever published anything I would have used at least one exclamation point. History is supposed to be exciting! It’s supposed to teach you about how far we’ve come! It’s supposed to motivate you to reach even higher than those who came before!”

“Are you motivated?”

“To sleep, maybe.”

The Lalafell snorts. “Well, hopefully I’ve brought you something to distract you. Take a look at this.” She tosses something small over the table; G’raha snatches it out of the air as his tail whips back and forth in excitement.

“Did you…” He turns the tiny magitek over in his hands, staring wide-eyed at the Ironworks logo emblazoned on both sides. “What is this?”

“Well!” Dolala plops down on the bench, resting her chin on her hand as she watches him admire her invention. “You asked for a portable aetheryte - and things like that used to exist, and kind of still do in the form of your Allagan cubes, but attunement is a bit of a necessity and that’s not quite what we want. I reverse-engineered some of the tech behind your cubes to make this: your very own beacon!” She tugs at one of her pigtails as she grins at it. “If _you_ attune to it, you’ll know whenever anyone touches it! So if Vahl picked it up you’d be able to sense him!”

“I - I don’t know what to say.” He clutches the strange magitek to his chest. “Thank you - thank you!”

She waves a hand at him as she jumps off her bench. “Just don’t lose it! They’re not easy to make, you know. I’d put it somewhere special - somewhere you know Vahl would find it.”

“That’s a mystery in and of itself,” G’raha mutters, again returning his gaze to the strange magitek in his hands. “I’ll add that to my list of things to research, I suppose.”

“Focus on your books,” she suggests. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting with Chalvatot soon?”

His ears flatten against his head. “Oh, gods.” He scrambles all of his books and journals into one large pile before hurriedly attempting to cram them all back in his multitude of bags. 

“I’m sure he’ll forgive you!”

“Have you _met_ him?” Arms weighed down by book bags, G’raha gives the Lalafell a quick wave before running in the direction of the door. “Thanks again!”

*

“And this switch?”

“Deactivates the safety override.”

“And this dial?”

“Erm - changes the size of the portal?”

Chalvatot plucks his glasses off his nose to wipe at the lenses with his shirt. “ _No_ , Mister Tia, it decidedly does not. Try again.”

G’raha refrains from sighing and instead focuses on the control panel the Duskwight points to. Taking into account the readings and symbols on the screens surrounding the dial, G’raha tries again. “Determines the time I reappear?”

The Duskwight slides his glasses back into place. “Yes, though we are not entirely sure we have it down to an exact science. Remember - overestimating is better than underestimating. If you are a few years too early that gives you time to plan and prepare, but a few years late and you are dead.”

“Ever the ray of sunshine,” G’raha murmurs with a grin.

“Let’s run through this all again.” Chalvatot leads him back to the front of the charging room, past the dozen of engineers, blacksmiths, and alchemists working on the final touches of both the giant room and the giant magitek housed inside it. “I want you to be able to activate this in your sleep.”

“I would’ve thought time travelling while sleepwalking best avoided, but if you’re sure -”

“Gods grant me patience,” the Elezen mutters. He gestures to the first control panel in the entranceway, the one that allows access to the main chamber. “From the beginning.”

G’raha goes through it again, and again, and again - repeatedly, until Chalvatot is assured he has not only memorized the steps but could do so blindfolded. Once that’s out of the way they begin rehearsing other abilities - other “tricks” according to Chalvatot - the colossus is able to do: opening simple portals across shards, defensive routines, and a strange, unexpected ability to freeze time.

“Apparently it was a holdover from Alexander,” the Elezen says, disapproval obvious from his tone. “Why anyone thought you needed that is beyond me, but there you have it: forward, and back, and stopped completely should you so desire. The ability to travel through time _and_ jump across shards simultaneously is rather draining on the tower itself, so I would recommend not doing that repeatedly. I can’t promise the colossus could withstand it.”

“Have we named it?” G’raha asks. The magitek lies dormant in the center of the room, its mechanical limbs drooping forward as its robotic head angles to the floor. The bright blue-and-white paint had gone on the day before, and someone is just now putting the finishing details on the Ironworks crest.

“All this knowledge and he wants to know the machine’s _name_ ,” Chalvatot groans, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. 

“We have!” Biggs enters the room not far from them, a wide grin on his usually-sombre face. “I gave it over to popular vote, and the people have settled on ‘the Tycoon’.” At G’raha’s arched eyebrow the Roegadyn shrugs. “Who am I to tell them what’s a good name or not? You have to admit it is easy to remember.”

“Myself and the Tycoon, hurtling through time.” G’raha’s stomach does a little flip at the idea. “If you’d told me in childhood that fate would lead me here I don’t believe I would have considered you sane.”

“I still don’t consider him sane,” Chalvatot mutters as he crosses his arms. “That’s enough for today. We’ll practice this again - I hope to open the portal itself next week. Dolala mentioned she finished that beacon you wanted, so we can chuck it through to test both the beacon and the portal.”

“' _Chuck_ it through’?”

“A delicate lob, if you prefer.”

Biggs taps G’raha on the shoulder. “If you’re done here, Derrik is looking for you. He mentioned he’d be in the pub with Hollwyda.”

“I’ll head there now.” G’raha waves to both of them before leaving the main room. Even inside this new building the lingering aether in the air meddles with any magic he attempts to cast, amplifying it in strange and unpredictable ways. Not that he minds the walk through the dense blue clouds, but the jump pad at the end he could do without. Once past that teeth-rattling venture he teleports to the steps outside Syrcus Tower.

Summer is finally in full swing. While not as hot as the summers G’raha remembers, the humidity still manages to make his hair stick to his face and his clothes cling in awkward, unpleasant ways. He can’t say whether he prefers the mugginess of summer to the wind-chilled blast of winter, but the sounds of Eight Sentinels in warm weather are definitely a highlight. Children fill the streets with laughter and high-pitched shouts, and the market at the far end of town is a babble of conversations. It sounds busy, happy, and content - it sounds, for lack of a better word, like home.

Pushing aside thoughts that are only going to hurt, G’raha makes his way to the town’s one pub. In the middle of the afternoon the place should be deserted, but as he opens the door he finds a crowd of people waiting inside.

“Surprise!”

His ears stand up straight as his jaw drops. “What - what’s this? Derrik?”

Kokoju laughs and grabs his hand to drag him into the room, before the nearly-two dozen people gathered before the bar. Friends and engineers, researchers and fellow healers, soldiers and townspeople - everyone he has worked with, everyone who has helped him, everyone he knows is gathered in this space.

“M-my friends,” he stammers. “What are you - why are you -”

“Biggs told us the big day isn’t far off,” Derrik says, moving to the front of the crowd. Hollwyda stands behind him, supporting tiny Lyna on her shoulders. “We know you’re not the type for a big send-off, but we wanted to do something before you left. Kokoju had an idea, and it kind of spiraled out from there.”

The pub door suddenly slams open behind him as Biggs and Chalvatot tumble in, huffing and puffing as though they’d run the whole way. 

“Forgot - you’d teleport! Made getting here - hectic.” Biggs bends over and rests his hands on his knees as Chalvatot slides into a chair, both of them gasping for breath. “Did we - miss it?”

“Just in time!” Kokoju says. She holds a wrapped gift up to G’raha with both hands, raising it over her head. “The idea was mine, but Clechette organized the weavers and goldsmiths to put it together!”

“You didn’t have to -” 

A flurry of protests cuts off his humble words, and he relent as he takes the package. It’s soft and malleable, rather like a thin pillow, and he has to settle it on the nearest table to effectively tear at the ribbon on top. The brown paper wrapping comes away to reveal cloth: red, black, and white layers, with gold metal accents and gemmed embellishments. “What’s this?”

“We couldn’t have you showing up on a whole new world wearing work clothes,” Derrik says, his green eyes glinting mischievously. “Now, I know these might be a bit gaudy for you, but if you’re to be the voice of the Source you need to look the part.”

“Clothes?” G’raha can hardly put words together. “You made me clothes?”

“Nice clothes,” Clechette adds. “For someone of status.”

He clenches his teeth as tears spring to his eyes. To avoid looking at anyone he pulls at the cloth, revealing a layered robe and cloak. Digging deeper reveals a second identical robe. “Two?”

“Laundry happens even to the best of us,” Dolala says in a singsong voice. “We have a third set half-made, just in case.”

G’raha gathers the material to his chest as he finds the courage to look around the room. So many bright, smiling faces - so many friends in such an unexpected place! From Derrik and Hollwyda, to Biggs and Chalvatot and Clechette, to Kokoju and Dolala and Emund - and even Dominic, who lingers at the back as though unsure of his welcome, and W’muhj, wearing the first genuine smile G’raha’s seen from him since they returned. Even little Lyna is smiling as she drums away on the top of Hollwyda’s head.

“To say I am grateful is a momentous understatement,” he says gruffly, and all the attention becomes too much. He clears his throat and stares at the fine cloth, knowing he has to say more than that yet completely unprepared for this gift and this gathering. “All of you know my story. You know the state of my mind when you first found me. I am - I was unsure we would ever succeed.” He meets Biggs’s eyes across the pub and the Roegadyn nods. “And now here I am, saying ‘we’ instead of ‘you’! In just a short few months this place has become home, and you have become family.”

“ _G’raha_!” Kokoju scolds, staring hard at the ceiling while blinking furiously. Dolala wraps an arm around her wife’s shoulders, grinning at her emotional reaction. “If you make me cry over clothing…!”

“I’ll remind you that _you_ started this,” he teases. “Though - ‘status’? Me?”

“You’ve said before that your tower is going to be impossible to miss the moment it appears,” Biggs says. “Better for you to look capable, for whoever finds you first.”

“The neighbourhood welcoming committee!” Dolala suggests with a laugh.

He looks around the room again, at the smiling faces of those he has come to know far better than he ever expected, and tries again to convey his gratitude. “I’m so glad it was you - all of you. Of the people who could have opened the tower, I can’t imagine them being a more welcoming and trusting group than you have been.”

“Okay, now _I’m_ misty-eyed,” Derrik announces, twisting to the bar behind him. “Time for drinks! Get your mugs!”

A rush of people move to the bar, laughing and calling out to both Derrik and the amused barkeep, but Biggs cuts through the crowd to join G’raha at his table.

“Sorry for the deception,” the Roegadyn says quietly. “You will be relieved to know I convinced them not to invite the entire town.”

G’raha’s jaw drops; he spends a few flustered moments imagining all of Eight Sentinels celebrating him before he shakes his head. “Thank the Twelve for that!”

Biggs grins, but his humour dims as he leans forward and taps the cloth in front of G’raha. “I requested certain modifications to this.”

“Why?” Suspicion immediately creeps in. “What magitek did you build into it?”

“Now _that_ would have been fun,” Biggs says dryly. “Nothing quite so fantastical as that, however; the hood and the lower half are designed to hide your ears and tail.”

Both of his mentioned features twitch. “Might I ask why?”

“We have no idea what you’re going to face on the First,” the Roegadyn says, his expression sombre. “I know their races look like ours, based on Arbert and the other Warriors of Darkness, but for all we know Miqo’te may have zero social status on the First. The last thing I want is for you to walk into this new world and find yourself shunned.”

“I had not considered that,” G’raha murmurs. He picks up the hood again, feeling the padded top and noticing the lack of ear holes. “Are you saying you’d rather I hide myself?”

“I think it best you present as an anomaly - to the people of the first and to any Ascians who may already be there.”

“I see.” He sighs and places the clothing back in its wrapping. “This ties in to your belief we should not tell them about the Calamity.”

“There is such a thing as playing our hand too early. Even if the people do not panic, it’s entirely possible that word of you and what you’re trying to achieve will reach the Ascians’ ears. It is better all-around if you make no mention of the Source whatsoever - no Miqo’te, no Ironworks, no Allagans, no Syrcus Tower. Hide all of it.” Biggs leans closer. “If the Ascians suspect you are an Allagan from the Source they will have motive to stop you, and also to destroy the tower that still remains on the Source in that time.”

“We’ve been over this before,” G’raha argues. “I’m not going to hide a tower that large!”

“I don’t mean hiding it! I mean calling it other names - call it the Crystal Tower, _officially_ , and leave out all mention of its makers and its powers. The Ascians will recognize it for what it is, but without you parading about as an Allagan they will be thoroughly confused.”

“Is Biggs talking work?” Derrik joins them, sliding the two of them mugs of ale. “At a party?”

“It’s important work,” Biggs mutters even as he takes the drink. 

The mayor rolls his eyes, and then redirects his attention as his daughter waddles over to his side. “Look who’s joined us! Come on up!” He swings the red-haired girl up onto his lap, bouncing his knee as she laughs and slaps her hands into the moisture left behind by the cold drinks. “You’ll miss Mister Tia, won’t you?”

“Misser Tia!” Lyna claps her hands at him and laughs again. 

“That I am,” G’raha says, managing to stamp down his worry to focus on the girl. He watches her slap at the shallow puddles of water across the table, before leaning forward conspiratively. “Watch.” He points one finger at Derrik’s mug and twists the aether around him - gently, ever-so-gently. Before the delighted child’s eyes the ale freezes over.

“Ice! Ice, Papa!”

Derrik rolls his eyes. “Wonderful trick.” He pulls his daughter back even as she reaches for the now-frosted mug. “Let’s go find Hollwyda, eh? I bet she’d love to carry you around for a bit.” He points to his mug as he stands. “I’ll be back to chip away at that!”

G’raha watches the father and daughter make their way across the room; Lyna’s delighted squeals occasionally carry over the chatter and laughter around them. His gaze catches on Dominic leaning against the far wall; the ginger-haired Imperial gives him a small nod but makes no move to come closer.

“I’ll be back, too,” G’raha murmurs, sliding out of his seat. Biggs nods, already focused on Kokoju as she passes out food, and G’raha makes his way across the room.

“Not only an Allagan, but a time-traveler too!” Dominic keeps his voice quiet; he slides his hands into his pockets as he gives G’raha an appraising look. The sprained arm had been easily healed, but the bruising around his eyes is still dark and painful-looking. He’d never offered to say if the wounds came from the Ascians’ attack or his own people’s retribution, and G’raha isn’t going to force him to tell them. “It seems all our hopes rest on you.”

“It’s a weight,” G’raha replies, joining Dominic with his back against the wall. From here he can watch his friends drink, and eat, and laugh - it is the first time he’s seen the group of them quite so immersed in joy since Biggs and Derrik returned from scouting Alexander. “But the more I consider it the more honoured I am to have been chosen. To be the one soul to bear hope across two worlds? To continue to carry the torch across both time and the rift?” He sighs contentedly. “I always did wish to be an adventurer.”

“Glad someone’s getting their wish,” the Imperial replies with a grimace. “But maybe this world does need a restart. We’ve made quite a mess of what we’ve got.”

“I prefer to think of it as a second chance.”

Dominic catches his eye and slowly nods. “Aye, that you would.” He claps G’raha on the shoulder before pushing off from the wall. “I think I’ll watch the young one for a bit. Take care out there, Allagan.”

“I always try to.”

There is a moment where G’raha stays by himself, where he takes a quiet moment alone to watch his friends. As content as he is - as _happy_ as he is, being with these people and working with this team - there is still the emptiness that comes from knowing Vahl would have loved this, too. 

Burying the sadness - the hope, the fear, the worry; every little emotion that cascades upon the ones that came before - he smiles and rejoins the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we approach The Big Moment, there’s a missed Chekov’s gun that I feel deserves an explanation. I mentioned back in chapter two about Revenant’s Toll being converted into a place of quarantine before the Imps and Ixal took it over, and I mentioned in chapter three that the Ironworks had never returned to the Rising Stones. I had a whole arc planned for the Rising Stones adventure! While it mostly involved finding records of Vahl before the Calamity, a large part centered around what became of the survivors of a plague that hit Revenant’s Toll and Coerthas after the Calamity.
> 
> Enter 2020, stage left.
> 
> Safe to say I’m not in the headspace to write about pandemics anymore! I shifted all of the discoveries about Vahl to Ala Mhigo and what little we see of Revenant’s Toll avoids mentioning the pandemic entirely. If you’ve been waiting for the day they infiltrate the Rising Stones, I’m sorry! I wanted to see it too, but I wrote myself into a corner with that one and I wasn’t willing to retcon my own writing, minor as it may have been. Sorry!


	31. If Not Now, Never

“How do you think this will go?”

G’raha doesn’t take his eyes off the screens above him as Derrik joins him. “Either it will go perfectly or we’re about to be attacked by whatever comes through the portal.”

“Ugh.” Derrik crosses his arms over his chest and wrinkles his nose. The figures on screen activate a variety of consoles, clicking buttons and turning dials; to Derrik it no doubt looks like nonsense, but G’raha has endured sessions after session on how to operate the Tycoon: he knows exactly what each person is doing. “That’s the beacon?”

“It is.” Emund holds it in both hands, shown on every monitor above them. For protection they had strapped the Hyur into a harness that is then connected to the room itself; bolted into place along both the floor and walls should the portal attempt to close upon him. Biggs has repeatedly told them that’s ridiculous - that it is a doorway, not a wind tunnel - but everyone had agreed they would prefer to be safe than risk the bald, unshakeable Hyur.

G’raha and Derrik stand in the hallway outside the Tycoon’s main room. Chalvatot had refused to let them into the main room on the grounds that it is “too dangerous” - though he allows a dozen engineers inside without issue - so they had taken up their place in the hallway. Monitors along the top of the walls give a variety of angles of the room, showing Emund in his silly harness, Chalvatot and Biggs adjusting dials, and other members of the team at their stations. G’raha had attuned to the beacon the day before, and spent the afternoon testing it with various volunteers. No matter who held it, how far away they were, or how well he knew them, he could sense the exact moment someone touched the strange magitek. With the beacon in their hands it is simple for him to summon them to his side.

Thanks to Kokoju’s work they have decided to plant the beacon in Syrcus Trench. There had been more obvious places - the Rising Stones, the Waking Sands, and even Ala Mhigo itself were a few spots G’raha thought would work well - but the chances of someone else finding it were too high. The Trench is hidden and difficult to reach, making it a safer choice even though G’raha isn’t quite sure how he’s going to convince Vahl to wander there.

One problem at a time. The beacon is a back-up should G’raha not be able to summon Vahl from Ala Mhigo itself; if he needs to convince Vahl to journey to the Trench he will solve that conundrum when he gets there.

“Oh!” G’raha’s nails dig into his arms as he watches Biggs throw the final switch. “Here we go!”

“It’s only traveling through time, right? No rift-hopping involved?”

He nods, keeping his eyes on the Tycoon. It comes to life in bits and pieces, parts of it whirring as the wings slowly stretch. “Chalvatot tied the ability to move between shards to me. They can’t even test it without me in the room. Oh, gods -” He moves closer, watching the screens all around the center platform begin to come to life. Scenes from the world before the Calamity flash across every panel - Limsa Lominsa, Ul’dah, and Gridania; Ishgard and Ala Mhigo; Garlemald and eastern cities, Sharlayan, and places G’raha cannot begin to name. They begin to flash too fast to clearly see, zooming through times and locales until a bubble appears in the middle of the room. Its glassy, smooth surface shows the dark and dank walls of what G’raha recognizes as Syrcus Trench.

Derrik’s hand grasps G’raha’s shoulder. “That’s it! That’s - that’s a portal! Through time!”

“That is,” G’raha murmurs. He can’t decide if he wants to cheer or cry; his emotions are a mess. He wants this to work - gods, does he want it to work - but if it works that means they are almost ready to teleport him through time and space. He watches Emund gently toss the beacon into the five-foot orb; the surface ripples similar to a drop hitting a puddle as the beacon vanishes into it. Emund turns around, raising his arms in the air, and Biggs hits a switch to close the portal.

“Time travel,” Derrik mutters, already moving past G’raha to wait at the inner door. “Bloody time travel!” The door unlocks from the other side and Derrik runs in whooping. “Time travel!”

G’raha follows, his grin so large his cheeks hurt. His first stop is Emund, who is already blabbering about what he saw.

“Like a mirror, except - except I could see the other side!”

“So like glass,” Chalvatot says dryly, already prying at the harness on the Hyur’s torso.

“Like glass, then! But smooth - the smoothest glass you’ve ever seen. And you can see right through! Syrcus Trench, without the cemetery! Gods, if I’d stuck my hand out -”

“We’d have lost you forever,” the Duskwight interrupts. “Would make my day quieter, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t actually _do_ it,” Emund argues. “I just _thought_ about it…”

G’raha leaves them behind to find Biggs, who is in the middle of a strange, celebratory dance with Derrik. The Roegadyn stops the moment he sees G’raha and pulls him into a giant hug as he spins him across the floor.

“We did it! Us! The Ironworks!” His victory shouts devolve into blabber and G’raha can only laugh with him, and then he’s suddenly crying, too - laughing and crying and hugging everyone who comes near him. The energy is infectious and soon the entire room is chanting, “The Ironworks! The Ironworks! The Ironworks!” G’raha is right alongside them, jumping and shouting and stamping his feet.

Two centuries of work has led to this moment. He hopes that, wherever they are in the Lifestream, Cid and Nero are laughing, too.

*

At the end of the day G’raha finds Biggs in the basement of Syrcus Tower, fiddling with a large egg-shaped database. He flushes an unusual shade of pink the moment he sees G’raha and quickly steps away from it, mumbling something about testing the recording capabilities as he leads G’raha upstairs. They are the last two out of the tower: with the sun already setting most of the engineers and craftspeople have either returned home or joined the crowd heading for a late dinner at the mess hall.

“Tomorrow we’ll try going through the rift,” Biggs says, watching the last of his crew make their way down the stairs. The engineers are laughing as they go, still on a high from the success of their generations-long endeavor, and G’raha can’t help grinning, too. “Not actually going through, of course - just to see if we can _see_ another world. It’s largely ceremonial, I mean - we already know the tower can do that. We just haven’t tried directing it to somewhere that isn’t the Thirteenth.”

“And then? After we’ve done that?”

“And then you leave us.” Biggs’s smile takes on a sorrowful slant. “I must admit, I find myself hoping there is another complication - something to work through, some problem to fix.”

“I believe we are of like minds.” G’raha returns the sad smile with one of his own. “I find myself now standing before the abyss, as it were, and though I know what waits at the bottom I struggle to move my feet.”

“We’ll push, if we must push, but I think you’ll jump when the time’s right.” He suddenly holds out his hand. “It has been a pleasure, G’raha Tia.”

G’raha takes it with a renewed grin. “Likewise, Biggs the Third.”

The moment doesn’t last. A _boom_ suddenly rocks the tower itself, rumbling down to the very foundations, and G’raha and Biggs find themselves struggling to stay upright.

“Thal’s balls,” Biggs groans as the entranceway shakes. “What the hell was that -”

G’raha is already running to the stairs. A cloud-covered sky is quickly being covered by dark aether as bursts of power flicker along the edges of G’raha’s magical barrier. More explosions rumble up the length of the tower as pieces of blue crystal begin to rain down upon the shield. Screams and cries from the town begin to carry up to them at the tower’s doors; he can just barely hear Hollwyda and Derrik shouting orders above the din.

“May the Twelve have mercy,” Biggs mutters, stopping beside G’raha. Pandemonium has broken out below them as civilians and soldiers run this way and that, but it is the sky above that draws both of their attention. G’raha can feel the aether shifting and pulsing around them, can sense every spike in power as momentous force is unleashed against his shield and his tower.

It isn’t difficult to spot the cause: two floating figures, one robed in black and the other in white, hover just over the apex of the domed barrier. One’s attention is on the shield itself, while the other’s head is craned back as he flings bolt after bolt at the tower itself. 

“Ascians, godsdamnit!” Derrik suddenly rushes up the steps, Hollwyda on his heels. “Both of the bloody creatures!” An explosion over the shield has them all ducking, but the barrier holds. “They’re trying to bring it down!”

G’raha’s limbs are paralyzed, struck stiff as ice by the sight of that black-robed, red-masked villain looming overhead. He sees Ishgard, and bolts of black energy, and W’cheruh collapsing in his arms even as they teleport - 

“G’raha!” Biggs is shaking him, dragging his thoughts back to the present. “Please!”

“I cannot cast from inside the shield," he murmurs, his heart galloping within his chest. "I can teleport outside, but -"

“You would be open to their attacks,” Derrik says, his voice grim. "Hollwyda?"

“On it.” She salutes them, holding G’raha’s gaze the longest, before she turns to sprint back down the stairs. 

“Biggs, I’m leaving the Ironworks employees to you. Down the Trench and out, understood?”

“All things considered, Chalvatot can see them out just as well as I can.” The Roegadyn stares down the mayor. “I’d rather go with you.”

Derrik looks away. For a moment G’raha thinks he will argue, but it passes and the man eventually nods. “So be it. Cat, you’re going back in your tower.”

G’raha gapes for a moment before his mind catches up. “What? No! If you’re fighting then so am I!” 

“We’re not fighting Ascians! We’re optimistic, not suicidal.” Derrik turns away, already moving to the stairs, and Biggs starts to follow. “We’re out of time.”

“Come inside!” G’raha begs, running after them onto the tower steps. The town beyond them is quickly emptying of everyone but Hollwyda’s soldiers; it is eerily quiet under the thunder of aether. “Gather everyone! We can hide in Syrcus Tower -”

Derrik suddenly spins around and grabs G’raha’s shoulders, stopping him dead in his tracks. Biggs stops too, watching the two of them. “We’re not hiding.”

“We certainly can’t fight!”

“You’re right - _you_ can’t.”

G’raha shakes his head and tries to push Derrik off him. “We can wait it out in the tower! They can’t get past -“

“They are going to drain the tower!” Derrik roars, shaking G’raha back and forth. “They are going to wait _us_ out! This is a _siege_ , G’raha, and if you don’t take the tower and go _now_ then there won’t be any power left!” He forces G’raha back, back, back until he’s past the threshold - and only then does he let go. “You’re teleporting _now_!”

“But -“ G’raha looks at Biggs, who nods solemnly, and he can feel panic beginning to tighten his lungs. “We haven’t tested it! We don’t know that this will work!”

“We know,” the Roegadyn says slowly. “We have always known Syrcus Tower could do this. That is why Cid and Nero created their plan.”

Reaching desperately for anything that might convince them otherwise, G’raha tries a different tactic. “But if I go the shield falls! Eight Sentinels will be open - completely open!”

“It’s you they want! You and the blasted tower! If you leave the Ascians will have no cause to stay!” Derrik takes a few steps back, his face set in a grimace. “I promise you, cat, we haven’t lasted this long to meet our end here.”

“But if you came with me -“

“Twelve be damned, _no_! This is _our_ world! These are _our_ lives! This is our _home_ , G’raha, and we’re not giving it up!” Derrik waves behind G’raha, to the inside of the tower. “Your future lies that way, but ours - ours is here! And make no mistake, we’re going to fight fucking hard for it!”

G’raha looks to Biggs and sees the same resolution, the same determination, the same unbending will - and he steps back, clutching his staff to his chest. “Oh, gods.”

“Go, G’raha,” Biggs orders, his voice stern even though his eyes are - for the very first time in G’raha’s memory - damp with tears. “Go now!”

“Go save the world!” Derrik adds with a sudden tearful laugh, throwing his arms over his head. “And remember us, damn it! We got your ass there!”

“I will - I will! I’ll never forget what you've done! I promise you!” The tower doors begin to close as the two men back away, as they turn towards the thundering explosions over the silent town, and as much as G’raha wants to run after them - to pull them inside, to take them with him - his feet remain rooted to the ground. The last he sees of his friends are their backs as they begin to descend the stairs, silhouetted against a purple and black sky, and then the doors slam shut and blue aether flows up the face of them, locking them for the first time in months. “My friends…”

He cannot be sure how long he stands there, one hand outstretched - but before he can gather the will to rest his palm on the golden door a rumbling explosion rocks the tower. Gritting his teeth as he wipes away tears, G’raha teleports to the underbelly of Syrcus Tower. 

The cavernous aether-filled space looms at his feet. He doesn’t hesitate as he steps over the jump-pad, as it throws him up and over the ledge, as he falls through blue aether - 

He doesn’t hesitate as he sprints down the long walkway to the Tycoon, to the massive room painted blue-and-white and emblazoned with the Ironworks’ crest, down the monitor-filled hallway and into the room that holds their colossus - the room at the center of his tower - 

He still doesn’t hesitate as he runs along the control panels, barely sparing a glance at the Tycoon and its wires, at the snapshots from Vahl’s life crackling on the walls all around him; he flicks switches and presses buttons, turns dials and adjusts gauges, throwing away every safety lock and engaging the most complicated piece of technology their world has ever known -

One button remains: a small piece of blue crystal, it has been chiseled from the tower and wired to respond to no one but G’raha himself. 

He pauses, staring at that small blue chip with his crystal hand raised, with the hum of machines all around him - hums, and beeps, and the laboured sound of his own breathing - and then another _boom_ shakes the entire tower and he throws his hand forward onto that tiny switch. 

The Tycoon comes to life. 

G’raha stumbles backwards, away from the whirring cogs and spinning plates, away from the enormous metal limbs that twist and shift in front of the magitek, and as he moves towards the outer tunnel the walls all around him begin to come to life. 

Vahl at the top of Syrcus Tower, backed by NOAH and the Ironworks. 

Vahl in Ishgard, flanked by two dark-haired Elezen. 

Vahl in the gardens of Ala Mhigo, fighting amongst flowers as a towering Garlean slashes at him with a katana. 

Vahl with a knee-high chocobo and Beta at his feet, surrounded by Cid and Biggs and Wedge and... 

The hum spins into a roar, a cacophony of mechanical sounds, and the pictures begin to distort. More explosions echo down the tower, shaking the foundations of it even to G’raha in the very belly, and if he can feel it here he can only imagine what Eight Sentinels is going through. 

He thinks of Derrik, Hollwyda, and little Lyna. He thinks of Chalvatot’s constant bickering and Kokoju’s determination, of Dolala and Clechette and Emund and Hidden Eclipse - and the friends in far places, the Elezen and dragons in Ishgard and Arrius’s rag-tag band in Ala Mhigo; the friends he lost and the friends he never said goodbye to. He thinks of Eight Sentinels and Mor Dhona, of Sharlayan and Eorzea and the world that has been his home - has _always_ been his home - 

It’s too much all at once, too much to bear - G’raha grabs the nearest thing to him and throws it across the room. He roars with all his fear, his frustration, his loss - and when that doesn’t help he roars again, screams at the Tycoon, throws leftover mugs and datalogs and thrusts papers onto the floor. His sense of failure and despair bubbles over and it’s as though his heart is tearing through his chest - he wants to go back, oh gods, he wants to be with his friends! With the people he has fought side-by-side with, lived with, laughed with! With the people who made a miracle out of nothing, who held fast to an idea for generations, who taught him how to hope!

Tears cascade down his cheeks as he falls to his knees, and as he wipes them away he realizes the sounds are _further_ now. Muffled, fuzzy, distant - as if he is swathed in cotton, bundled and bagged and bound for his journey, and as sound disappears completely the room begins to glow white. 

G’raha curls into a ball on his side, hugging his knees to his chest. He can no longer feel the pounding explosions of the Ascians’ aether or hear the whir of the Tycoon. The white has faded to black, but - the black is full of stars, for malms and malms and malms. It is the emptiness of a thousand night skies compressed into one: an infinity of glowing pinpricks scattered across the deepest black velvet, a universe spread wide and yet so small - so close - almost as though he could reach out and touch…

Deep in the underbelly of Syrcus Tower, somewhere and somewhen in time and space, G’raha Tia closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "They said they would find a means to save our godsforsaken world - just as soon as they had sent me on my way. Said it with such confidence that, for a fleeting moment, I half-believed them."
> 
> _lies on floor, covers head with hands_


	32. Interlude: Foundations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lest anyone worry that I'm about to dive into a century's worth of adventures on the First, no, no, I am not. We'd be here until 6.0 drops if I tried! The "interlude" chapters will get us to 5.0, but they're a bit more piecemeal than the chapters that came before.

The silence gets to him first - that clinging, cloying silence, that quiet that grows until he can think of nothing else. It greets him in the morning, accompanies him throughout the day, and heralds in the evening. It amplifies the echoes of his lonely footsteps treading familiar stairs, turning what once was home - what once was familiar - into a wasteland of memories, a cemetery of nostalgia and might-have-beens. 

How quickly situations change…

It is loneliness, as it is guilt, as it is regret and depression and anger and this ache in his chest, this pain that builds and builds until he wonders if he might die of it. It would be easier, surely, to not feel _this_ \- this mess of emotions churning his mind and heart, this unabating stew of negativity that renders him both listless and unbearably awake - 

He sees their faces in his dreams.

He tries not to sleep.

*

The Tycoon will not wake.

The blue aether that normally fills the bottom levels of Syrcus Tower is gone, dissipated, used in powering the technology the Ironworks had worked so hard and so long to perfect, and without an abundance of aether there is nothing left to fuel the colossus. It, and the room it sits in, have gone completely dark.

He tells himself it’s for the best - that it completed its task and is no longer needed - but he cannot say what he would have done had he been able to power it. If he had switched the dials, reversed the sequence, turned time forward to a destination he knows so, so well, could he have saved…?

He’s done this before: he ricocheted between guilt and denial and hope and loss and all this mess when he first awoke in Eight Sentinels; when they’d told him about the Eighth Calamity; when they’d told him Vahl had died.

It is no easier the second time.

*

Standing on the top steps outside Syrcus Tower’s front door for the first time is a heady, strange moment. It takes him days to work up the courage - to find the strength to move forward, to leave the tower’s basement behind and take stock of the world he is now - perhaps permanently - a part of. In that time no one knocks on his door; nay, there are no signs of anyone in the vicinity - but he has not been looking. Until he rests his hands upon those golden doors and forces them to unlock, there is a matter of days where he cannot be sure it even worked. What if he is still on the Source? What if he has merely teleported through time again - what if he opens his door to the ruins of Eight Sentinels? To the bodies of his friends and companions?

Fear can only hold him in place for so long before curiosity and desperation drive him out.

G’raha Tia’s first impression of the world beyond his doors is of pastels: pinks and purples and a strange shade of blue. It takes him a few moments to realize those are _trees_ he sees; there is not a green leaf in sight. The ground itself is a strange pale grey, like earth sapped of colour, but once he takes his eyes off the world below his steps the sky takes over completely.

Shining, shimmering, effervescent - clouds like molten pearls swirl and coalesce as far as he can see. It takes his breath away; shifts his thoughts away from his self and towards this new mystery above his head.

Is this what happens to a world overrun with Light…?

He cannot say how long he stands on the stairs that first time, how long he watches the sky gently shift above him, how long he listens to the wind wandering through the boughs of the forest below.

There is no mistaking it: the Ironworks’ plan succeeded.

G’raha has no idea what to do next.

*

He had often told Biggs it would be impossible to miss Syrcus Tower, and that holds true on the First. It is not long before the people begin to make themselves known to him, though they linger along the treeline and retreat whenever he moves beyond the shadows of his doors. He can understand their trepidation because it echoes within him as well: these may not be friends. There is no way to know without speaking, and speaking requires a certain kind of courage he cannot muster just yet. He has no idea how long they can keep up this strange dance - watching each other from a distance, peaking beyond crystal walls and tree boughs to each glimpse the strange entity ahead - but the choice to make the first move is eventually taken out of both his and the strangers’ hands.

The tower is attacked on his thirteenth day on the First.

*

G’raha sits on the top step, his staff across his thighs, his new robes on with hood up, and his chin resting in his hands as he watches the strangers watch him. They mix and mingle among the undergrowth below those strange purple trees, moving back and forth as they wait for him to make the first move.

Had he not seen bows, guns, and chakrams in their hands he supposes he might’ve already made his way down the steps to say hello - but he must take care. There is no one else who can see this plan through to completion now: the weight of two worlds rests upon his shoulders alone.

He tries not to think about it. It is a daunting, impossible task ahead of him - but there are daunting, impossible tasks behind him. One step at a time, one goal at a time, one success at a time: he will do as the Ironworks did, and focus his attention where he must.

Alas that he does not know how to safely befriend an alien world.

It is at least reassuring to see the races he is already familiar with mingle below him; the weapons, too, are ones he knows from the Source. The scholar within him is already clamouring to compare and contrast the First and the Source, but research of that nature comes second - a _far_ second - after discovering a way to thwart the Light.

A flock of birds suddenly bursts free from the trees some distance away, flying as fast as their wings can carry them, and as G’raha squints into the distance he realizes normal wildlife noises have quieted moments before he hears the crash of branches being snapped, heavy feet - many, many feet - advancing, and a chorus of roars - 

The people who have watched him for days stumble out of the forest - towards him - but their attention is on the cover they just left. They aim bows at shadows even as they retreat ever closer to his staircase, tripping over themselves in their rush to stay away from whatever approaches.

G’raha rises, taking his staff in hand, and watches the treeline for any glimpse of what might be causing such a disturbance. From his high angle it is all purple leaves and rocky cliffs, stretching out to a far off fortress among the rocks, but as he begins to descend the staircase the source of the noise finally passes the edge of the trees.

Creatures. Monsters? He cannot tell, but - they are bleached white, almost glowing with bright energy, and the look in their eyes is madness amplified a thousandfold. Bears and scorpions and strange, flying creatures with heads like horses, and tiny little creatures with long tails and -

The people of the First are fleeing towards the base of his tower as the white horde advances. G’raha reacts much as he had that first day in Eight Sentinels, when the Ixal attacked and Hollwyda tried to pull him to safety, but he is much more accomplished now. The shield doesn’t drift down like a curtain but snaps into place so quickly it upsets clouds of dust where it touches ground. A sound accompanies it that reminds G’raha of beetle shells: a clicking, locking-into-place type of noise that stops the moment the shield is complete.

He’d been embarrassed when he’d employed this trick in Eight Sentinels. There had been too many eyes upon him and his crystal hand, too many curious strangers that he had no idea what to do with.

But now…

G’raha allows himself a small, satisfied smile as the dozen-or-so strangers at the base of the stairs turn to stare at him. “Take a chance, G’raha,” he murmurs, and as the white creatures bash their claws and teeth against the barrier he begins his descent to greet the people of the First.

*

He had not expected anyone to stay.

Foolish, really. He’d seen Ul’dah after Ala Mhigo fell. He’d seen the refugees crowded outside the city walls, hoping against hope for a chance at a better life amongst the scraps of those who lived within. He’d seen how people would flock towards an opportunity - _any_ opportunity - no matter how slim the chances of success may be. It should not have come as a surprise that some people would desire to be near the tower, especially after witnessing his trick with the shield.

It started with two tents near the base of the stairs: meager dwellings, yes, but the two tents quickly became five, then fourteen, then two dozen - and then they began to clear away the nearby forest for lumber, and G’raha suddenly understood how he would navigate the First.

The Ironworks had come to Syrcus Tower because it was integral to their plan. They had uprooted their lives to create a new home in the midst of the abandoned wilds, believing the result worth the cost. 

These people have no idea of the tower’s power. G’raha cannot even tell them its true name, let alone the mysteries housed in its basements, but it will become integral to their survival. If he could protect the people of Eight Sentinels in exchange for their research, their technicians, their historians - why can he not provide the same for these refugees?

It will not be the _same_ , of course. He is not G’raha Tia to these people; he is not even an Allagan, or a Miqo’te, or a child of Sharlayan. He is the stranger, the enigma, the mage from the Crystal Tower, and if his relationship with Biggs and Derrik had been a partnership the relationship he forges with these people of the First is built on lies. No matter how close they may become or what work they might accomplish, G’raha alone knows he is all that stands between them and complete annihilation.

It is far from comforting.

*

As the small settlement around his tower grows G’raha’s knowledge of this world grows with it. He begins to use their name for it, calling it Norvrandt rather than the First, and learns that his tower had appeared in a region known as Lakeland. He learns of the Greatwood to the east, the Faerie Kingdom to the north, the deserts to the south, and an island exactly where Limsa Lominsa might have been. He learns of the Flood of Light and the Warriors of Light who ushered it in; of the bleached-white sin eaters that prey on the people fighting to survive; of the Oracle of Light who had saved them.

He learns other things - smaller things - as well: Miqo'te are Mystel; Hyurs are Humes; every race is the same but different. Personal names are strange. How Light and Dark aether interact are opposite, and yet - not completely incorrect, the more he thinks on it.

The most important thing G’raha learns is that time is not what he thought it was. He has arrived on the First six years after the Flood was averted by the Oracle; yet on the Source there had only been a smattering of months between the Warriors of Darkness’ departure and the Eighth Calamity. 

He has no idea how much time he has until the First falls to Light.

Rather than throw all his plans into disarray, this realization leaves him with three ultimate goals to work towards before he can summon Vahl: establish how time flows between the shards, determine what is causing the Light that drenches this shard, and fine-tune his ability to reach across the rift.

And if he can save a few dozen souls from sin eaters in his spare time, why not? Though it may not bring back his friends on the Source, it gives him some comfort to know he can at least aid these people in the same way.

*

“Another request to extend the shield?” He’s smiling as he says it, smiling as he watches the three leaders of this gathering of people wait in front of him like anxious children asking a parent for a favour. The Mystel and Hume exchange looks of trepidation with an air of “I told you so”, while the aged Ronso simply waits, leaning heavily on his cane. “How far would you like it to extend?”

“Half a malm west,” Orlyg responds, his voice grave. He peers at G’raha through the gap between the small lenses perched on his wide nose and his bushy eyebrows; it is still difficult for G’raha to read Ronso facial expressions, but he seems serious. 

G’raha’s smile fades. “Half a malm…?” He looks past them, to the meager dwellings they have begun to create for the newest additions. “At last count I don’t believe we had more than half-a-dozen join us this week. Surely they do not require such a large addition…?”

“Not for them,” the Mystel says shortly. Her pale yellow hair is chopped haphazardly, falling across her face in awkward patches; G’raha assumes she cuts her own hair with the daggers she wears at her hips, but he does not have the courage to ask her. “For food.”

“For food,” he repeats, feeling a beat behind his guests. 

The Hume clarifies. “We want room to grow crops without risking our lives. Nothing extravagant - we don’t intend to launch a full-scale farming venture right outside your walls, but small patches of earth for simple vegetables and herbs…?” 

G’raha directs his full attention to her. Though Orlyg is the eldest and Sanga-Vri the most dangerous, Ferro has the clearest head of the three appointed leaders of this strange settlement of refugees. Her dark skin and darker eyes loosely remind G’raha of Chalvatot, though the similarities end there: she has shorn one side of her dark, curly hair completely to the skin, and the muscles on her bare arms bring Hollwyda to mind rather than the Duskwight engineer. “You require a half-malm of land for vegetable gardens? Please do not misunderstand - I, too, am a fan of fresh-grown produce - but that is the largest expansion you’ve requested yet. How many plots of earth do you intend to plant?”

“Not just gardens,” Sanga-Vri says. “A rookery as well.”

Alarming though the amaro may be at first impression, G’raha has found himself charmed by the First’s equivalent of chocobos. “I am not opposed to such an addition. I would honestly rather they be housed within the shield, provided they do not crowd out the people living within.” He tilts his head and waits for them to continue. Every time they have made this request they have offered him something in return; some offers he takes gladly - books, and scrolls, and all matters of cultural documents for him to study - while others he has turned down. He has no use for their strange coins or decor, and he would rather not rid them of the only wealth and heirlooms they might still retain after the Flood. 

“It’s a rather large request,” Orlyg acknowledges. His navy fur has begun to fade to grey; the goatee at the end of his chin is almost entirely ashen. “We enquired with some of our builders and craftspeople as to the logistics, but I believe we have an offer that will more than repay your efforts.” The Ronso smiles. “We wish to build you a library.”

Had G’raha’s ears been able to stand up straight he knows they would point right to the sky. It is a measure of his growing self-control that he does not leap at the suggestion; rather, he allows himself a smile and a small nod. “A library! I have amassed quite a collection of books, that is true…”

“And we’re bringing in more,” Sanga-Vri interrupts. She jerks her head south. “Put in a request with some of our contacts down in Amh Araeng.”

“From Rak’tika as well,” Ferro adds. There is a light in her dark eyes that shows that she, at least, understands how tempting this offer is. “We’ve reached out to Eulmore and hope to have a response within days. This will not be a small endeavour.”

“Will it not?” His excitement is beginning to get the better of him; he clears his throat and looks around the space he has already shielded near the base of the tower. “May I ask where you intend to build such a marvel?”

The three exchange knowing looks. They know he’s caught already, but G’raha doesn’t mind. A library, gardens, a rookery, and employment for the craftspeople and labourers in this young settlement? G’raha would have taken the books alone as a fitting trade, but this offer promises something far greater.

Feeling genuinely hopeful for the first time since unlocking his tower doors, G’raha settles in to listen.


	33. Interlude: Humble Beginnings

“The envoy from Fort Gohn wants to speak with you.”

G’raha pauses at his writing, quill in hand over the large ledger on the desk in front of him. “Me? He was to meet with the tribunes an hour ago.”

The soldier shrugs. “He did, and now he’s looking for you.”

With a sigh that’s half annoyance, half resignation, G’raha leaves the quill to one side and stands to face the man. They are in one of the small storage facilities on the grounds near the Crystal Tower; the desk and chair are the only pieces of furniture in the room, as the rest is taken up by crates of books. “Was he told I am merely an accessory to the goings-on happening in this village? That I am, first and foremost, a researcher?”

“Just like the envoy from Eulmore, sir - he said he has a request for you specifically.”

G’raha doesn’t complain - barely - but he does narrow his eyes. The envoy from Eulmore had been a particularly vexing woman, though there had been nothing overtly wrong with anything she asked. It had been her sneer at their dirt-and-sand roads, at the plain wooden buildings and the mess that will one day be a finished, underground library; it had been her attitude around the tribunes - those _chosen_ to lead this settlement by popular vote - and her immediate change of attitude whenever G’raha entered the room; it had been comments about “quality” and “status” that would have stiffened his tail were it not bound to his back.

“Let us hope not all envoys are the same, hmm?” He follows the soldier outside, blinking at the bright sun after the candlelit interior of the storage room, and allows himself to be led across the trampled ground towards the large hall the tribunes have been using for everything official.

He has been on the First for almost a year. In that time the mess of tents and huts around the base of Syrcus Tower have grown into wood-and-stone buildings: homes, shops, and places of business have filled out the space on either side of the tower’s large front steps. It is nothing like Eight Sentinels, but it is a far cry from what Tailfeather had become, or even the outskirts of Ul’dah; the people have some simple comforts, though they work hard for them. The tribunes have set up regular trade runs between Eulmore, Fort Gohn, and Holminster Switch; they have made brief overtures to the survivors in Amh Araeng as well, but the people of those heat-blasted deserts are more scattered than anywhere else. For now G’raha is impressed and pleased by the connections they have managed to forge, especially given the conditions beyond his shield.

Sin eaters are the First’s equivalent of voidsent: aether-hungry monsters who prey upon any people they find, with an additional twist of corrupting the very aether within those they contact. The swarm is as impressive as it is terrifying: able to create new sin eaters from the bodies of the men and women they take, it is a constantly-growing horde run rampant across all of Norvrandt. The larger settlements have standing armies to combat it; G’raha’s group has his shield. Travel is risky even by amaro, as many of the sin eaters have developed wings, and barely a day goes by without word of various attacks.

G’raha wishes he could do more, but it is taxing enough to care for the people near his tower. Caring for those outside his boundaries would only delay his ability to focus on the more important problems, and he is distracted enough as it is.

The stranger from Rak’tika waits outside the tribunes’ door. Though any stranger would stand apart in this small community, the envoy is especially noticeable: the length of his arms are marked by black paint in sharp, geometric designs. Brilliant blue and green feathers adorn a band wrapped around his head, and his dark robes are featureless. 

“The mage from the tower!” The man gives him an odd bow, something that must be unique to the Night’s Blessed, before smiling. “I am very glad you agreed to my request.”

“What can I do for you?” G’raha isn’t exactly upset at being summoned in such a way, but if this is a repeat of the Eulmore incident he may put a moratorium on his public appearances. 

The envoy must pick up on his demeanour, as his expression changes. “I do apologize for the inconvenience, but a dear friend asked a favour of me, and it is for his sake that I’m here. I wouldn’t trouble you otherwise.”

G’raha’s posture softens, the annoyance replaced by curiosity. “Is that so? How may I be of assistance?”

“My friend is a historian, you see - even before the Flood he was our leading Ronkan researcher, but he is quite knowledgeable about a variety of cultures over Norvrandt. He would like to journey here to work in your library. Rumour of it has reached us already, and he believes he could do more good here than in Rak’tika.” The envoy pauses before quietly adding, “As do I, come to think of it.” 

“I would be grateful for the help,” G’raha says, “though his request need not be so formal. Many have journeyed here to lend their aid.”

The envoy frowns, looking very uncomfortable, before admitting, “He is - a little strange. A very good and intelligent person, and a loyal one at that, but - well. I would hate to give you the wrong impression. I’ll bring him here within the week to meet you in person.” The envoy bows again. “Thank you for speaking with me.”

“It was a pleasure,” G’raha replies, frowning as he watches the man depart. He turns to the soldier who’d accompanied him, who looks just as confused as G’raha feels. “Any idea what I’ve gotten myself into now?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, ser.”

“Ah, well.” He looks back towards the envoy. “I shall simply have to live with my curiosity for the next few days. Come - let’s check in with the tribunes and see if this meeting went smoother than the last one.”

*

What G’raha expects to be a week’s wait for the envoy’s “strange friend” turns into nearly a month; his curiosity fades completely as he focuses on exploring his tower.

A year’s time in the First has given him an overwhelming amount of information about what caused the Flood - or the people who brought the overwhelming amount of Light to Norvrandt, according to the survivors - but establishing why the Light remains is a mystery he cannot unravel from the safety of Syrcus Tower. Unable to move far without risking himself to that damned lethargy and the shard’s hungry sin eaters, G’raha instead turns his attention to the other two problems he faces: summoning Vahl across the rift, and establishing how time flows between the Source and this shard.

Without having anyone else to turn to - and with very little information in the Ironworks’ vast libraries related to either topic - his greatest resource has been the tower itself. The Allagans may not have known the exact answers to his questions, but he is able to piece certain texts and histories together to work towards unlocking more of the tower itself. The most surprising of these discoveries concerns the wall-length blue mirror in his Oculus: it is no mere mirror, but a kind of monitor or viewing screen he may turn towards locations near the tower itself. Upon making this discovery G’raha spends a good day-and-a-half tuning the mirror towards various parts of the settlement around his tower, watching his people work and laugh and live, safe from the constant fear that had plagued them before taking refuge beneath his shield.

He hopes Eight Sentinels found the same relief after his departure. 

The envoy from Fort Gohn finally returns almost a month to the day of their first meeting, his mysterious friend following behind him. G’raha waits for them both at the base of his tower, holding his staff in both hands as he watches them approach. 

The friend is a surprise: he’d expected an older man, but this blond Elf looks to be just out of his teenage years. Young as he is, the historian still towers over his small Hume friend, though he follows meekly behind him with anxious glances left and right and his hands buried deep in his pockets. He wears a large travel sack over his shoulders, and his black robes are even more shapeless than the envoy’s.

“Hello again!” G’raha calls, watching the envoy’s face light up. “I hope your travels went well?”

“As well as any can these days,” the Hume replies, hurrying up to him with the Elf in tow. “I see your little gathering here is growing!”

G’raha turns to the newest construction: made of actual brick and mortar, it promises to tower above the single-story wooden buildings that crowd the base of the tower. “The tribunes deemed it important we construct proper living quarters, and I am not one to argue.” The multi-story building will one day house several dozen apartments, though G’raha cannot begin to estimate how long the construction may take. 

“And your library proceeds?”

“It does.” Turning in the other direction, G’raha waves his hand to the north. From this distance there isn’t much to see, as all the construction is below ground level, but wood and stone and pulleys and cranes clog the muddy ground. “Slower than expected, due to the other projects taken on around the tower, but I am not one to count the days. The library is a gift and I would much rather they complete their apartments first.”

“Apartments, eh?” The Hume elbows his friend gently before gesturing to him. “This is the Ronkan historian I mentioned on my last visit.”

“Hello,” the Elf says, so timidly G’raha leans forward to better hear him. “Name’s Travyrs.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Travyrs. I’m the mage from the tower.” Obvious, of course, but without taking a name for himself there is little else he can say. “I understand you’re interested in living and working here?”

The Elf nods, frowning at the ground between their feet. “If there’s room.”

G’raha’s gaze shifts to the Hume, who smiles awkwardly, before returning to Travyrs. He isn’t sure what he’s done to put this youngster’s back up, but the anxiety broiling through the man is painfully obvious. “I daresay we can find you a place. If you wouldn’t mind following me…?”

“I actually have to meet with Orlyg,” the envoy says apologetically. “I’ll catch up with both of you, but he did ask to see me as soon as I arrived.” He pats his friend’s arm. “I’ll find you before I leave, eh?”

“Of course,” Travyrs says, though he looks no happier for it. They watch the Hume scurry across the muddy ground to the tribunes’ hall before G’raha gestures for the Elf to follow him. 

“I made a few provisions for your arrival,” he says, hoping to reorient the man’s mind to something more stable. “Since the apartments are not yet finished most of our people are sharing rooms barracks-style, but I thought you might prefer something a touch quieter for your work.” He catches Travyrs’s look of relief and hides his smile as he leads him to a long wooden building near the Rookery. A half-dozen amaro laze about in the sun while their keepers clean out the stable; a few children play while balancing along the nearest fence. Most of them call out to G’raha as he walks by, waving and grinning widely when he returns the gesture. “I hope you don’t mind animals?”

“No, ser.”

Opening a narrow door towards the back of the wooden building, G’raha steps into a small room. The furnishings are basic - bed, dresser, table, and chair - and as the historian steps inside with him it only amplifies how cramped the space truly is. “I’m afraid it isn’t much…”

“It will serve,” Travyrs says, his voice stronger. After dropping his sack on the bed he moves to the lone window over the desk, peering through the curtains towards the construction that will one day be a library, and then turns to G’raha with that same, concentrated frown. “I appreciate it - thank you.”

“No trouble at all, I assure you.” It had been a little trouble - clearing out what had once been a storage shed, and finding furniture to fill it, had been a more complicated endeavor than he’d hoped - but he isn’t about to add to this stranger’s worries. “I shall give you some time to settle in before taking you on the grand tour, and after that there are some books concerning Rak’tika I’d love to have your opinion on - if you don’t mind?”

“Books are what I know best,” the man replies, and G’raha finally sees a hint of a smile. “I would forgo the tour and move straight to the history lesson if it pleases you.”

“Ah, it would, but I want you to know how to find the mess hall first,” G’raha says with a laugh. “Alas, we cannot survive on paper and ink!” He turns to the door, intending to mention the envoy, when an alarm suddenly blares across the grounds. Leaving the poor, confused Elf behind G’raha scurries outside, past the handlers desperately attempting to calm their amaro and the children scrambling home, eventually sprinting towards the edge of the magical barrier that surrounds the tower and the land around it. Soldiers gather near the small, wagon-wide gap G’raha has left in the shield, and more are running towards it.

“What’s happening?” Sanga-Vri isn’t far behind him, her daggers already in hand and a dozen soldiers behind her. “There are no eaters at our doors!”

As G’raha runs closer he sees an exhausted Mystel soldier on his hands and knees, gasping into the dirt as sweat trails down his chin. The standing soldiers around him make way, leaving G’raha and Sanga-Vri room to move near the Mystel. “Where?”

“The western fort,” the man gasps. “Ser Ostall told me to run - to get help - but it’s eaters, ser, plenty of them! They have us surrounded!”

“Your people?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know, ser, I’m sorry - I put my feet to the ground and didn’t look back.”

Sanga-Vri spins to the growing crowd before G’raha can react. “Flyers, to your mounts! The rest of you, form up! We’re marching west!” 

The Mystel’s words are repeated and carried through the dozens of soldiers quickly filling the area nearest the shield. Few of them have mounts, meaning the majority will be proceeding on foot, and no matter how fast a person may run it is not a quick journey from the tower to the western fort. 

G'raha turns around to find Sanga-Vri and Ferro quickly discussing tactics, and raises a hand to interrupt them. “I will go ahead.”

“But - but you never leave -” Sanga-Vri cuts herself off and sucks her teeth. “You will be safe?”

“Of course.” He turns to Ferro. “Once I leave, the shield will become impassable. Should refugees make their way here I suggest you ask them to retreat to Jobb.”

“You think Jobb will fair better?”

“We’ll have to see.” 

Her face contorts into a snarl, but she knows they have no other options. “Good luck, ser.”

The last he sees of them is their shocked expression as he taps his staff against the ground, and then the tower's aether teleports him west.

*

He arrives too late.

Later - after they have driven out the eaters, and put axes to the cocoons, and calmed the survivors who’d taken refuge in the stone tower - G’raha joins the healers moving between the torched homes and buildings. Survivors are few and far between; even corpses are a rarity given the eaters’ proclivity to turn their enemies into monsters. They do find what remains of Ser Ostall, the knight who’d led the soldiers guarding the western fort ever since the Flood; Sanga-Vri leaves them to continue the search without her so that she may break the news to Ostall’s widow.

It is depressing, discouraging, dark work - it is one more reminder of the rocky path that lies ahead of G’raha, of the questions he must answer and the powers he must put forth. Somehow he is to be the one who saves this world, to unravel the mysteries that led to the Flood and somehow reverse it; the sin eaters are clearly tied to the Light, but how? Why? What had the Warriors of Light _done_?

As despair begins to germinate, sending branches of anxiety coursing through G’raha’s belly and lungs, he hears a shout not far from him. More voices join in - cries for a healer, for help, for _anyone_ \- and he leaves the white cocoons to sprint towards a mostly-burnt building. The roof has collapsed inwards and the wood is charred black around every window; fire still lingers inside, sending plumes of ugly smoke out the ruined roof, but the crowd of soldiers and survivors has gathered at the rear of the building. G’raha pushes through the bodies in front of him, hoping against hope that there will be good news on the other side of this mess.

“I’m a healer!” he cries, ducking under Elves and Viis. “Let me through!”

They finally part to reveal two soldiers kneeling next to a badly-burnt Viis. She is no longer among the living - a small mercy, given the damage done to her - but as G’raha arrives one of the soldiers pulls back her arm to reveal a small, well-wrapped bundle in her arms. Two long, white ears poke out from the top of the fabric, and the moment it is shifted out of the woman’s grasp it begins to wail.

“Wicked white,” one of the nearby soldiers murmurs, and everyone falls quiet as the baby’s cries ring out over the bloody, exhausted crowd. 

G’raha steps forward and raises his left hand over the babe. Blue aether crosses the distance between them, gently probing as G’raha wills his hands not to shake. “There is some damage from the smoke, but she seems largely unharmed.”

“I’ll take her - I knew her mother.” Another Viis steps forward, gently scooping the bundle into her arms. She swallows hard as she looks down at the tiny, crying babe, and begins to rock it back and forth. “There, there - it’ll be alright, little Lyna, I promise it will.”

G’raha’s vision tilts; he is very glad he has a staff to lean on else the soldiers would be picking him up off the ground. It isn’t _her_ \- it isn’t Derrik’s Lyna - it is a coincidence separated by centuries and a rift and -

“Take her to the Crystal Tower,” G’raha suggests quietly, meeting the tall woman’s sober gaze even as he fights the sob building in his chest. “I realize you have healers here, but for one so young...I would rather see to her healing myself.”

“Of course, ser.” The Viis steps back, her attention already on the little one, and G’raha forces himself to step out of the crowd.

One year since he fled the Source - since he left Derrik and Biggs and all the rest - and he _still_ has no way of knowing if they survived. He doubts he ever will: it is proving difficult enough to forge a connection with the Source of this timeline, let alone the one two hundred years in the future. It is a choked, feeble hope that lives in him still, but he cannot help but nurture it: he must believe they survived. To assume anything else is to admit Vahl’s life is worth the cost of Eight Sentinel’s sacrifice, and that is something G’raha is not willing to consider.

He cannot be sure of Lyna Garlond's path, but this Lyna - _this_ one he can help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sick this week so if the next update is late I apologize :( the brain is mush and so am I
> 
> But! Hey! 100k words! What in tarnation! Thanks for reading this far, for every comment and kudos and click! I wouldn't have kept writing without all of you lovely people :) I prooooomise to finish this within the next 100k!


	34. Interlude: The Fae and the Fallen

G’raha reaches with his crystal hand, gently wiggling his fingers in mid-air even as he tunes his aether towards the mirror in front of him. The blue surface shifts to black - but the black is so dark it seems he could fall into it, and keep falling past the wealth of stars that open up to him. It is disorienting and intimidating, yet beautiful, too. The rift is the largest, quietest space G’raha knows; he cannot help but appreciate it even as it continues to vex him.

Chalvatot had once compared navigating the rift to threading a needle from the opposite side of a room, and initially G’raha had agreed with him. The first time he’d managed to turn his mirror towards the rift had been a momentous, celebratory occasion, which had been quickly eclipsed by his realization that locating the Source would not be a simple endeavor. There had been a few days where he had simply stared at the vastness of it - shifting his view from here to there, glimpsing different stars and yet having no point of reference: he could be _anywhere_.

The immensity of it had forced him to re-open the basement of Syrcus Tower. He’d found every book, journal, and datalog left behind by the Ironworks and had dragged them upstairs to hide within his locked Umbilicus. Diving into their research had been almost as intimidating as navigating the rift without their help: he had never paid much attention to their work with Omega. Attempting to catch up with all their work had been the biggest undertaking he’d ever embarked upon, and though he'd known it would be a lengthy process he also knew it was the only way forward.

That had been eight years ago. 

Eight years is a long time to spend with one’s head in the stars, but G’raha has finally managed to create a map of sorts, a navigational chart to assist him. Constellations have long been used to chart paths across land and sea - why could he not do the same in the rift?

The door to his Ocular suddenly slams open and he dispels the view of the rift in an instant, spinning around to face the one person comfortable enough to knock without entering. 

“Ser, we’re going to be late!”

“Are we?” He cannot help smiling as the small Viis runs towards him, worry creasing her forehead. “I was sure we still had time.”

“We want to be early! We promised him, ser!”

“That we did.” He leaves his mirror and his dais behind, taking Lyna’s hand as she nearly drags him out to the winding stairs. “Lead on!”

The sight of him being led out of the tower and across the grounds garners quite a lot of attention. G’raha sees understanding, sympathetic glances from parents and amused grins from soldiers, but he simply waves with his free hand as he follows along. Lyna, being the determined soul she is, doesn’t notice any of the attention in her trek towards the Pendants.

When the people had first told G’raha they wished to create a suite of apartments to live in he had pictured something similar to the apartment Vahl had rented in Gridania: one large, square building with elevators up to every floor. He had anticipated function over form, but the craftspeople had clearly thought this out far better than he had. The Pendants does every apartment-building in Eorzea to shame, with beautiful ironwork, elaborate masonry, and tiling that continues up every floor. Had G’raha not lived in the tower he would have been overjoyed to find himself a room on one of the Pendants’ four floors.

Lyna waves to the manager behind the desk in the central hall, who is well-accustomed to her comings-and-goings and simply waves her on with a smile, and then they’re up, taking the stairs at a dash until they reach the third floor. Lyna drops his hand and sprints ahead, eagerly rapping on the wooden door at the very end of the hall.

“Early, as always!” Travyrs pulls open the door to let them in, smiling as he watches Lyna dart past him. “Would you like to help me set the table?”

“Sure!”

G’raha follows the Viis inside, watching her dodge the stacks of books and papers to reach the table on the left side of the room. “How are there more books every time we visit?”

“Well, since _someone_ decided healers’ quarters are more important than the completion of their library…” The Elf says it with a smile as he closes the door and follows them inside, seeming not at all embarrassed by the clutter and confusion in his living space. “I had some shipped in from Voeburt yesterday. I fear I may have misunderstood the size of the collection.”

G’raha squeezes between two perilously-stacked towers of ancient books to reach the table, which is also - predictably - covered in books. Lyna is already shifting things to make room, though many of the stacks are above her head. “What is it this time? More Ronkan histories? Records of cultural dress from Amh Araeng? The Mord’s culinary preferences?”

Travyrs shudders theatrically. “No, thank you! Quite enough grubs for my lifetime!” He makes a face at Lyna, who giggles, before pulling a book from the nearest pile and handing it to G’raha. “The Kingdom of Voeburt is my latest fixation. They’ve struggled to hold back the sin eaters of late - tidings from the north have not been optimistic. That castle of theirs, Gruenes Licht? Spent most of last winter under siege. Don’t know what they were thinking, building a castle on top of a bloody pillar of rock, but it hasn’t helped them at all when it comes to the flying eaters.”

“Some people are drawn to high places,” G’raha comments, thinking of Ishgard. He turns the book over, noting the cracked leather bindings and flecks of gold leaf. “How will reading about their history help their current problems?”

“I’m focusing less on Voebert and more on the fae folk that live at the edges,” Travyrs explains. He hands Lyna plates and cutlery as he speaks, allowing her to set the table in a mostly-organized manner. “If the Drahn and the Galdjent were able to forge an alliance, it stands to reason they can do the same with the pixies and the Nu Mou.”

G’raha arches an eyebrow as he takes a seat at the table. “The Nu Mou, potentially - but I cannot see the pixies taking any plea for aid or offer of alliance seriously.”

“They may not have a choice.” Travyrs guides Lyna into her seat at the head of the table before he turns to the stove behind him. “Time to eat!”

“I like the Nu Mou,” Lyna says, watching the Elf dish out bowls of something steaming and savoury. She kicks her feet rapidly under the table, appearing almost to bounce on her chair. “They’re helpful, and they’re my height!”

“For now,” G’raha replies with a grin. 

Bowls handed out and drinks in place, Travyrs takes the seat across from G’raha. “What about you? What research has kept you busy of late?”

He cannot speak of the rift, or Vahl, or the impending Calamity - but there are more general ideas he _can_ mention. “Souls, actually. Specifically the transference of souls across great distances.”

The Elf frowns. “Like with aetherytes?”

“In a way, but without attunement. You’ve seen how I can teleport myself around this settlement - it would be a great boon to do the same with others. If I could teleport someone _to_ me…” His voice trails off as he thinks back to the many, _many_ experiments he conducted with Chalvatot. It has been almost a decade since he tried it last, but he doubts his magic has improved any further to render him more successful now.

“Odd that you should mention the Nu Mou and soul-theory so close together.” Travyrs points his spoon at G’raha. “Rumour has it a Nu Mou who specializes in that type of magic has taken up residence just across the Source.”

G’raha’s breath catches - until he remembers the large lake to the southwest is named the Source. Unfortunate coincidences aside, he can’t help but be intrigued. “Truly? Why in Lakeland, and why now?”

“That I can’t say, but he’s supposedly squatting in the Grand Cosmos - an old palace built by the Elves, back when all Lakeland belonged to us.” He grins and shrugs. “Whether there’s any truth to the rumour or not I cannot say - I only just heard it from the delivery man yesterday. You might find more information in Sullen, or at least a boat willing to carry you the distance.”

“I may very well give that a try.” He stops short of asking Travyrs to join him: he knows the man well enough to understand that any journey outside of the Pendants is stressful enough; asking him to venture beyond the shield would be unseemly. “I daresay I could use the exercise.” He finds himself flexing his crystal hand as he says it, but stops the moment he notices both Travyrs and Lyna are watching him with worried looks. 

Calling it his crystal “hand” is no longer accurate. In the nine years he has been on the First the crystal has begun to do exactly what Beta had hypothesized it would: slowly but steadily it is making its way to his shoulder. Already the blue has reached past the hem of his short sleeve; it is not painful, thankfully, and happens so gradually G’raha barely notices it, but what it means for his future he cannot say. 

With luck he will complete his work before the crystal reaches his brain.

*

The palace on the other side of Lakeland’s largest lake is a work of art unlike anything G’raha has ever seen - with the exception of Syrcus Tower - and it is more than a touch intimidating. Sprawling grounds dominate his view, decrepit as they may be; it makes him wish he could see the Elves’ empire at the height of its power rather than the remnants he’s witnessed around Lakeland. 

“Does one knock at palace gates?” he wonders aloud, resting his knuckles against his chin as he contemplates the large iron contraptions barring his way. “Childhood fairy tales never mention _this_ part.” Rather than wait to be noticed - he has the feeling he would wait until the end of the world were he to try - he expends a little more aether to teleport to the other side of the gates. An overgrown cobblestone road leads up to the base of a large, bowed staircase. Marble columns frame a pair of enormous red doors, though the paint is peeling and the gold accents have been cut away. G’raha has no idea how long this place has been deserted, but it has clearly not avoided the attention of thieves and ransackers.

Even as he stares at the doors the space in front of them is suddenly not empty. A Nu Mou appears between the two columns, fists clenched as it glares down at G’raha.

“You trespass!” it cries. “Begone!”

“Who lays claim to this land?” G’raha calls in return. He can count the times he’s spoken with Nu Mou on one hand and would have plenty of fingers left over; he cannot be sure what to expect. “The Elves are gone!”

“I claim it! From the gates you so rudely bypassed to the far northern wall, all of this land is rightly Beq Lugg’s!”

“Then might I not entreat upon the noble Beq Lugg to speak with me? I come seeking aid!”

The Nu Mou shakes its head back and forth furiously, its large ears wagging below its chin. “Nay, you might not! I will have nothing to do with men or their magicks! Never again! Not ever!” A poof of smoke suddenly obscures the fae before revealing a strange, caped creature, its head hidden by a mask and its clawed fingers wrapped around a gnarled staff. “Leave me!”

“Ser, I -”

A cloud of flying pigs - _flying pigs?_ \- appears around G’raha, followed by a multitude of sweeping brooms and plant creatures with vines for limbs. They close in faster than he can speak and it is clear they do not come with good intentions. He teleports away before they reach him, appearing back in his Ocular within an instant.

“That could have gone better,” he mutters, resting one hand on his hip. Perhaps he can send a message to Voeburt, or the Nu Mou themselves - surely _someone_ will have records of a mage that powerful, even if they are fae. “Unless _all_ Nu Mou have magic of the same caliber…”

Frantic knocks at his door pull his attention from that unsettling thought. He opens it to find Sanga-Vri and Ferro, and their expressions bring him no comfort.

“What is it?”

“Voeburt,” the Mystel answers shortly. “The castle’s been breached.”

*

“Next!” G’raha shouts, determination warring with exhaustion even as the soldier limps away from him. He wipes his chin against his sleeve, smearing sweat and grime across the fabric, before watching the next soldier be brought in by two of her companions. He gestures to the cot in front of him. “Here will do.”

The last had been a twisted ankle, but this one’s foot is far more serious. It does not take magic to know she will not walk again.

“Take it off,” the Drahn growls through clenched teeth. “Just take the bloody thing.”

G’raha meets her bright eyes, made even brighter by the soot and blood crusting across her brows, before he nods. “I can at least save the knee.”

“Wicked white, but I hate those monsters.” She grips the arms of her two companions even harder as she stares at the ceiling of their makeshift tent. “Make it quick.”

Fighting down a burst of nausea, G’raha raises his staff.

Three days. Three nightmarish, soul-scarring days since the sin eaters tore through the walls of Gruenes Licht. Three weary, neverending days since G’raha had set up camp at the Ostall Imperative, determined to do what he could for the horde of refugees and wounded fleeing the overrun lands to the north.

Three days since the Kingdom of Voeburt fell to Light.

Exhaustion runs straight through G’raha’s very bones. Had he lacked Syrcus Tower to pull upon he knows he would have collapsed hours earlier, but even with its borrowed aether he still sways on his feet. The other healers are working in shifts but there is no end to the Galdjent and Drahn making their way to his humble camp. Those who can walk unassisted he sends on to his tower, hoping at least there they will be fed and clothed, but few can do even that. They are running out of bandages, beds, and aether - and _still_ more come his way.

The Drahn faints before he finishes, but he doesn’t mind. It allows him to properly wrap and bandage the remains of her leg, even as he attempts to ignore the tremors running through his wrists.

He will have to sleep. Soon he will not have a choice.

“You hear funny tales in war, don’t you?” The Galdjent to the Drahn’s left sports a black eye and a bloodied bandage around his forehead. He and the Hume let go of their friend as they notice she’s lost consciousness, though the Galdjent’s watching G’raha as if he has the answers. “Fever dreams, maybe, or from people who took too many hits to the head. Right?”

“Sometimes,” G’raha says slowly, though in truth he has no idea. The closest he has ever come to anything of the sort was his imagination conjuring Vahl in Revenant’s Toll, and he doubts that is similar to what this man is talking about.

The Galdjent nods as a frown carves deep lines in his bloody forehead. “Had to be. Would make no sense otherwise.”

“You can carry her to one of the cots out back,” G’raha says, patting the unconscious Drahn’s thigh before pulling away. “I’ll stay nearby for when she wakes.”

“Thank you, ser.” The duo maneuver themselves to either side of the Drahn, one taking her under the arms and the other under the thighs, but as they move to the edge of the tent the Galdjent stops. “They told me they saw a girl take to the field near Gruenes Licht.”

“Leave it, Dorst,” the Hume hisses, clearly struggling under the weight of their friend. “Come on.”

Dorst doesn’t look away from G’raha. “A blonde Hume with blue eyes. Killing sin eaters! A child! But that - that’s just a dream, isn’t it?”

“I cannot say,” G’raha murmurs, narrowing his eyes. He is aware of the Oracle of Light and what she means to this world; the description may be generic, but everyone in Norvrandt would immediately think of Minfilia upon hearing it. “I did not see what they saw.”

“Neither did I.” Dorst sighs, and his next words are more to himself than G’raha. “I wish I had.”

G’raha watches the trio leave, staggering out into the night beyond the tent’s heavy flaps, before he sits heavily on his stool. His arms are bloody right to the elbow and the white smock he’d thrown over his robes looks no better; he will have to wash and change before the next patient comes through. And the cot - the bedding is ruined, soaked rust-red and dripping; he will need to call someone to change it.

He wants to rest his head in his hands, to close his eyes and blot it out - the moans and cries from nearby tents, the voices beyond the thin cloth barrier, the cold air seeping up his robes even now - but he cannot stop. More and more wounded are arriving, bringing with them grief and anger and so much loss, and if all G’raha has to do is extend a little more aether…

He shakes off creeping tendrils of exhaustion and begins to pull the bloody smock off. Voeburt has fallen; it is the least he can do to care for what remains of its people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time jump's gonna be a big one. Not many interludes left....!
> 
> And then I have to figure out Urianger dialogue :( :( :(


	35. Interlude: Leaders and Eaters

Some of the threads begin to fall into place during G’raha’s fiftieth year on the First. By then his library has been finished and fully stocked; construction on both the Pendants and the Catenaries has completed; the design and foundation for a green space known as the Hortorium has already begun; he has even been able to repurpose some of his Allagan technology into a shield over the entire settlement, enabling him to free up some of his own aether. Life on the First has settled into a somewhat-predictable routine as G’raha divides his attention between spanning the rift and locating the source of the Light, though he has made little headway on the latter -

Until the fae folk in the ruins of Voeburt do part of his work for him.

*

“I apologize for my late arrival,” G’raha says as he enters the foyer of Syrcus Tower. Ferro and Donovan, Sanga-Vri’s replacement as Captain of the Guard, wait with a small, green pixie near the tower doors; both Humes watch the fae creature with expressions of deep mistrust, though the pixie is the saddest G’raha has ever seen. Its wings are grey with dust and grime, and its bright hair is singed black. “What can I do for you?”

“This fae here says they killed a massive sin eater,” Donovan says, jerking his rotund chin towards the little creature. “The Light over Il Mheg vanished.”

“Beg pardon?” G’raha’s grip tightens around his staff as he steps towards the pixie. “Vanished completely?”

The tiny creature looks absolutely miserable as it nods. “Gone, gone! The sky was blue - blue as I’ve never seen it! The bluest it’s ever been! Like a lake - bigger than a lake - the biggest lake you’ve ever seen!” Tears well up in its oversize eyes. “And then it all came back!”

G’raha forces himself to breath. This could be it - this could be the answer he’s been searching for! In the calmest voice he can manage, he says, “I would be very grateful if you could provide a little more detail, if you please. I would like to help.”

“The King found a sin eater,” the pixie says, its eyes going even wider. “The biggest sin eater we’ve ever seen. The King attacked, and attacked and attacked!” It swings its arms wildly. “Some of us did not survive, but most of us did! And then the sin eater died, and the sky went blue! The bluest!”

“And after?” G’raha probes.

“The eater’s Light went right into our King.” Its lip quivers as tears spill down its cheeks. “And then the sky clouded over with Light and Titania wasn’t Titania anymore!”

*

“How big was this eater they killed?” Travyrs has half-a-dozen books open on his kitchen table already, and is rummaging through his shelves for more. “‘Big’ could mean something much different when you’re only a fulm tall.”

“I had it point to the first thing it found that was similar to the eater’s size,” G’raha replies from the couch near the door. He’d shifted stacks of books to the floor so he can properly lie across it, one arm thrown across his hood-covered face to blot out any light from the many lanterns and candles around the room. “The pixie pointed to the doors of my tower.”

Travyrs whistles in appreciation. “That’s big. Bigger than I’ve ever seen, certainly. Bigger than we've recorded, come to think of it.” The Elf is in his bathrobe - as he tends to be these days - and his greying hair is a mess around his face. G’raha knows the chances are high he has not stepped out of the Pendants for weeks, just as he knows that no amount of coaxing will convince him to.

Pushing concerns for his friend aside, G’raha focuses on the eater. “Are you certain? It is difficult to believe that something so large stayed hidden for fifty-six years.”

“That seems to be the case - unless…”

“Unless?” G’raha sits up, staring around the book-filled room as he attempts to find Travyrs in the mess. “Unless what, exactly?”

One of the precarious towers of books starts to tilt, leaning further over the bed even as G’raha watches. “It’s here, somewhere,” comes the Elf’s voice, muffled behind the books and shelves and general mess. “I know it is.”

Watching the book-tower tilt, G’raha taps the base of his staff against the ground and gently murmurs, “Break.” The tower freezes in place and he moves over to shift it back into a semblance of stability. “What are you looking for?”

“This!” A hand suddenly holds aloft a thin red journal, the cover of which is faded and stained. Travyrs pops up a second later near the shuttered window. “A journal from a miner in Mord Souq! Let me see if I can find the passage.” He shuffles through the shelves and shoulder-height piles of books and paper to sit on the couch - the only clear space in the entire room, as every kitchen chair is cluttered, and even the bed has a range of long scrolls unfurled across it. “There used to be a mining town north of Amh Malik. Had a stupid name - Cup, or Spoon, or something of the sort.”

“Ladle?” 

“Like I said - stupid name. The miner who wrote this lived and worked in Ladle, which depended on the mine nearby. Something happened at the mine, business became non-existent, and Ladle went the way of many of Norvrandt’s villages.” Travyrs finally finds the passage he’s looking for and shoves the small journal into G’raha’s hands. “Last two paragraphs.”

Turning the journal right-side-up, G’raha squints at the tightly-packed words on the faded page. 

_We’re overrun. Abandoned Ladle and fled north. Made camp in Kelk, but we’ll move east through the pass at sunrise. Want to put as much distance between us and the_ _thing_ _that led the horde. Never seen an eater that big - makes my hands shake just thinking about it. Do eaters have leaders? Didn’t think so, but if they do it’s whatever wrecked Ladle._

_Last I saw it was leading the horde to Amh Malik. Low hopes for the archaeologists living in those ruins. Never should have given them the damn key to the trolley._

G’raha hands the journal back to the Elf with a grimace. “The same one?”

“Perhaps. Two sightings in half a century? Either there is one moving slowly about Norvrandt or there are very few of these large eaters. I can’t imagine they wander about, regardless - we’d have seen them earlier if they did.” 

“The pixie said the Light in the sky vanished following the large sin eater’s death,” G’raha says slowly, crossing his arms over his chest as he closes his eyes. Having never walked through Il Mheg his mind fills in the mental gaps with the mountains and snow-covered lands of Coerthas. “It then reappeared once the eater’s aether was absorbed by Titania - at which point Titania changed. They became manic, the pixie said, and started attacking their own. Locking the king in the castle was the only way to stop the complete annihilation of everything in Il Mheg.”

“And the other eaters?”

“They rejoined the fight the moment Titania turned.” G’raha opens his eyes. Travyrs gnaws on his lip, a frown wrinkling his already-wrinkled forehead. “It seems the aether within the large ones does not act quite the same as the aether within the small ones.” 

“You believe the eater’s aether turned Titania into one of them.”

“I do.” Thinking of the Source and Vahl’s history, G’raha fights against the urge to shiver. “There were creatures in my land that could don the face of their enemy with ease. This is not quite the same, but the similarity is uncanny.”

“I don’t like that at all,” the Elf mutters. He points to the open journal in G’raha’s hand. “And this writer’s idea? That the large ones are leaders?”

“Leaders, or protectors, or keepers of the Light - if the Light that douses the land is bound to the largest eater in it, perhaps they are meant to protect it. Like -”

“Wardens, of a kind,” Travyrs says. “We can put out a call in the neighbouring regions and ask their soldiers and scouts to keep an eye out - we’ve got Titania in Lyhe Ghiah and something large down near Amh Malik, but who knows what might be out there? Maybe in the hills of Kholusia, or the Greatwood’s ravines?”

“I’ll let Donovan know.” It’s impossible not to be swept along by the Elf’s enthusiasm, especially because G’raha hasn’t made any sort of headway concerning the Light and how to stop it in five decades. “I’ll go speak to him now - if you want to join me I think he would appreciate your insight.”

Travyrs flushes and looks away, much as he does every time G’raha suggests he leaves the Pendants. His excitement quickly changes to awkwardness. “I - no. It is much too late, and here I am dressed for bed! I have complete faith that you will do my thoughts justice -”

“Travyrs…”

“ _No_.” This is more forceful. “You know this already, mage.”

“I do,” he says quietly. “Just as you know I’m here to help you.”

Travyrs fiddles with the hem of his robe, his thin, plaid-clothed legs sticking out the bottom. His face twists through a myriad of expressions before he turns away, slowly maneuvering himself through the stacks and shelves towards the window. “Good night, mage.”

G’raha sighs. Another attempt, another failure - he knows better than to press _too_ hard, but press he must. One cannot stay hidden within their room for the entirety of their life, no matter how hard they try - 

But he has larger problems to deal with: one friend’s phobias will have to wait.

*

Ferro surprises him with an entirely new problem the next day.

“You’re stepping down?” he repeats, hoping he doesn’t sound nearly as lost as he feels. “Now?”

“Not yet,” she replies, a knowing grin on her face. She clearly expected him to react just as he is reacting: she knows how much he’s come to rely on her. “But I do mean to retire within the year, yes.”

“And who do you mean to replace you?”

She tilts her head to one side as she raises her eyebrows, and G’raha takes a step back.

“Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t suggest -”

“You’ve been leading us in all but name for years, mage. We consider this land yours, anyhow, and taking the position would at least cement that. You’ve done a remarkably fine job, and I have no doubt you’ll continue to do so without me.”

“But I’m not -” _A Nunh_ , he thinks. G’raha Tia would not take this position. G’raha Tia would not come anywhere near a role like this.

But is he still G’raha Tia?

“Not what?” Ferro leans closer, her dark eyes glinting. “Well-spoken, driven to justice, good-humoured, unlikely to play favourites, and powerful enough to see to our people’s protection? You’re not royalty and you’re not native to Norvrandt, and you’re plenty keen on keeping your secrets, but so far as I’m concerned that only makes you better for the role.”

“Ferro -”

“And! To top it all off, you are genuinely concerned with ridding this world of the Light! Unlike those fools in Eulmore, who seem content to send out raiding parties once a week while they retreat to their high tower, you’re actually _doing_ things!”

“But I don’t want it!” G’raha doesn’t stomp his foot, but his flustered words come out much more childish than he’d intended. 

“ _That_ is why you’re the best choice.” Ferro steps right into his personal space and he quickly gives ground. “I have seen enough rulers who wanted the power and cared nothing for the people. _You_ are what Lakeland needs, and if you hate it that much I’ll create a council to help you.”

“I -” He desperately tries once more. “I do not have the time for it - my research -”

“This does not take nearly as much time as you seem to think it does.”

He rubs his brows with one hand, feeling the beginnings of a headache brought on by desperation. “Why are you so set on this falling to me?”

“Because I’m not going to be around much longer, and I trust you.”

G’raha flinches. Bidding farewell to Orlyg and Sanga-Vri had been difficult enough, but he has worked with Ferro the longest. Ignoring her greying hair and crows’ feet has become more and more difficult with every passing year, but he cannot deny it: she is nearly eighty. She will not be around to guide their people for much longer.

 _Their_ people. Is it strange that this new world should feel like home? Or is it inevitable? He has spent more time in Norvrandt than he had been awake on the Source. In truth the world of his birth has begun to feel almost dream-like - Eight Sentinels and Mor Dhona and even Vahl - _even Vahl_ …

“It needs a name,” he says, his voice gruff. “This place - this land around the Crystal Tower.”

“So do you,” she says lightly, though her expression is sombre. “And a title.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “It does not matter.” He doesn’t want to think about names for himself, about taking on strange titles and becoming a presence in the political sphere of Norvrandt - though he recognizes its importance, as he recognizes the need to stop any other power from entering this space, it is one more complication in a plan that continues to take him further and further from where he began. “You can choose.”

“Hmm.” Ferro watches him for a moment, her expression tense, before she turns to leave his tower. Her hand stops over the doorhandle and she gives him a look over her shoulder. “I have always respected your need for privacy, as I have continued to champion your research and commitment to our salvation.”

“But…?” 

“You put down roots the moment you allowed us to shelter under your shield. Whether named or not, you and this tower are a part of Norvrandt. You are the only one pretending otherwise.” She nods once - her version of a bow - before opening the door. “Have a good day, mage.”

G’raha rests his staff against his Ocular wall as the door closes behind her. He pulls back his hood, shaking out his shaggy hair, and moves towards the crystal mirror above his dais.

More crystal. More blue covering skin, creeping up his neck just as he knows it creeps across his chest. It is neither quick nor painful, but it is persistent: he has no doubts that eventually it will cover every inch.

The further he moves from his time on the Source the more distant it all becomes. It is hard to remember a time before this - a time before Light, and sin eaters, and skin made of crystal. Even the engineers of the Ironworks are hazy memories, feeble recollections he is slowly beginning to forget. 

Turning aside from his own reflection, G’raha moves into his private chamber, his Umbilicus. Books clutter the space - books from the Source; books about Allag and Garlemald and the Scions of the Seventh Dawn; books he cannot allow anyone from Norvrandt to find. Between these stacks of texts, on top of one ancient shelf, rests the faded painting of himself and Vahl. Even under the glass, hidden from sun and dust, the paint has begun to fade; the only colours that stand out are the blacks in the line work and the brilliant crimson of G’raha’s one eye. 

“Vahl Rime,” he murmurs, and even he does not know if he says it simply to say it - to voice the name he has held on to for so, so long - or to remind himself why he is still here. He loves - loved? - the Warrior attached to that name, but - 

The closer he comes to making a connection with the Source, the more terrified he becomes. 

It will not be the same because _they_ are not the same. Vahl _suffered_ after G’raha left; he lost friends and companions and came very, very close to losing his own life more than once. Who is to say what he will think of the Miqo’te he once romanced? Or -

G’raha’s crystal hand curls into a fist. He doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to even consider the possibility, but the fear lurks just below the surface: what will Vahl say when he sees what G’raha has done to himself? G’raha weighs it as worth the cost but Vahl…

Vahl will blame himself.

*

“I think they took the news well.”

G’raha doesn’t turn around as Lyna enters the Ocular; he hears her move behind him to watch the crystal mirror over his shoulder. Excited townspeople - residents of his newly-named Crystarium - mingle below the steps of the Crystal Tower. Their expressions read joy, excitement, and obvious satisfaction, and G’raha is trying to summon some of their good spirits into himself simply by watching.

Alas for that ever-present and all-consuming anxiety.

“How are you feeling?”

He frowns. He supposes he should have some idea, but nerves and the unknown have left him at a crossroads somewhere between bemused and befuddled. “It is not every day that one takes possession of both a name and a village. I think it understandable that I am feeling a little overwhelmed.”

“The Exarch,” Lyna says quietly, as though she is taking the name for a test-run. “It is a little grand, I think, but it suits you.”

G’raha finally turns away from his mirror. Little Lyna is not so little anymore: with almost four decades under her belt the white-eared Viis towers over him. She wears the armour that had been commissioned for every member of the guard, with chakrams at either hip. “Are you on duty today?”

“We were talking about _you_ ,” she says lightly, but she answers him anyway: she knows he will pester until he has an answer. “I’ll be at Fort Jobb for a fortnight. It is not far -”

“But you’ll send for me, should you have need of me?”

“Of course, Exarch.”

He makes a face at that. The name will take some getting used to - especially when it comes from _this_ spirited dancer. “I don’t suppose you would be inclined to keep calling me ‘mage’?”

Her exasperation fades into a gentle smile. “You deserve more than that.” She salutes him, giving him the customary gesture that has been adopted all over Lakeland, before moving back to the door. “Have you heard about the new Minfilia?”

“Another one?” He has lost count of how many blonde-haired, blue-eyed Humes have given their lives for Norvrandt since the fall of Voeburt; the legend of Minfilia has grown almost as notorious as his own shadowy history. “Has Eulmore recruited her already?”

“Of course - recruited and begun to train, much like those before her.” Lyna frowns. “Is there no way we could intercede on her behalf? It is hardly fair for generations of these poor girls to find themselves pushed to the frontlines, stripped of hopes and dreams and handed weapons instead. We can hardly hope to pin the survival of our entire world on one person’s shoulders.”

“Ah, well.” G’raha fumbles, unsure if he should even attempt to argue with her, and settles instead for a change of topic. “You’ll come for dinner when you return?”

Her smile says she’s aware of the distraction, but she allows it to happen. “I always do.”

G’raha waves as she leaves, belatedly realizing he’s going to have to buckle down and do the silly salute if he’s destined to rule this settlement, and then turns back to his crystal mirror. He watches Lyna exit the tower and stride across the grand, cobble-stone grounds in front of it, past the new healers’ quarters that are well on their way to completion, and out to the long bridge that stretches over their newly-dug ditch. 

Had he not said something similar when he’d first joined Eight Sentinels? Had he not often wished they would refrain from looking to him as any kind of saviour or guide? And had he not, often in the very next breath, worked towards bringing Vahl back to life to save the entire world?

“Fool,” he murmurs, stepping away from his mirror. The image fades just as Lyna leaves the Crystarium, and G’raha is alone in his blue-and-gold room, wearing the elaborate clothing made by long-gone friends, caught somewhere between hope and dread. “You’ve made it this far. Just - just a little further.” A laugh escapes him at the ridiculousness of it - he has so far to go! He has not yet even stabilized a connection twixt the Source and the First! Vahl seems no closer now than he had when G’raha first arrived in Norvrandt!

And yet - 

Hope is a funny thing: no matter how small it is or how convincing the arguments against it may be, it still inspires him to put one foot in front of the other.

Managing a smile in spite of it all, the Crystal Exarch returns to his research.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is late! Life hit me round the face with stress of all kinds. 
> 
> Thanks, so so much, for reading.


	36. Interlude: A Tall Glass of Waters

G’raha’s first true connection with the Source is a rocky, fumbling attempt, and the shock of success surprises him so badly that he allows the connection to break. Every successful attempt therein becomes easier, as he slowly grows familiar with his magic and the power he channels to bridge the rift. His mirror reflects Gridania, Ul’dah, Limsa Lominsa - he sends his wandering eye over hills and oceans and forests, north and south and every which way as he takes in the world he suddenly craves.

This is Eorzea pre-Eighth Umbral Calamity. This is Eorzea after he shut Syrcus Tower’s doors.

This is the world he missed.

There have been times where G’raha forgets the love that once motivated him. Decades removed from the Source, NOAH, and even Vahl, his memories and thoughts of those times are associated with a part of him that becomes increasingly difficult to recall. G’raha and Vahl were little more than youths when they ventured into the World of Darkness: still in their twenties, eyes open to the adventures that might still await, unaware of the misery that lurked in both of their futures. Watching the First fight against sin eaters year after year shifts G’raha’s focus from saving Vahl to saving _these_ people: the ones he spends every day with, the ones he works with, eats with, laughs with; Ferro, growing coarser with every passing year even in retirement; Travyrs, working diligently at every new problem G’raha brings him, though barely venturing beyond the bounds of his cluttered apartment; Lyna, promoted to Captain of the Guard whether G’raha wishes it or not; the Crystarium itself, building and expanding and slowly becoming a settlement G’raha is proud to call his own.

Until G’raha sees Eorzea in his mirror his focus is entirely on saving Norvrandt, but at the first sight of the land he once knew as his home G’raha’s heart shifts. Old scars reopen; old memories resurface; old thoughts outnumber the worries brought about by life on the First.

Whatever cause he chooses to fight for, whether it be the First, the Source, or the millions of lives demanding justice, G’raha knows a part of his motivation is selfish. He would do all this even if the Warrior of Light was a stranger - 

But it is much, much easier knowing it is Vahl he will one day welcome back to the tower.

*

G’raha stands in front of his crystal mirror. His hands are shaking and his chest might as well be a cage for butterflies. Excitement and terror weigh equally as he wets dry lips and tightens both hands around his staff.

Is he ready?

Will he _ever_ be ready?

He cannot avoid reality: he is running out of time. It has been eighty-nine years since he traveled from Eight Sentinels in a panic, sent forward by dear friends, powered and motivated by their hopes and dreams and his own desires - 

It has been ninety-five years since the Flood. 

He has to try. Though he still has not unraveled the mystery of the Light and the Lightwardens’ connection to it, he _must_ bring Vahl to the First. Every chance he has to turn his attention to the Source convinces him the time is quickly approaching: Doma is finally free from its Imperial captors. Powers converge in Ala Mhigo, drawn to that arid, salty land the Highlanders call home by the Imperials’ fierce last stand, and if history progresses as G’raha knows it will they are not far away from the end of hope - from _Vahl’s_ end, finite and final. 

There are no second chances. If G’raha cannot summon Vahl to the First before Black Rose is unleashed, all of this - every year spent, every soul who turned their attention towards Vahl’s rescue - will be wasted.

_He has to try._

Taking his staff in hand, G’raha darkens the face of his mirror. The rift lies ahead of him, vast and endless and ever-growing, but this is a path he has journeyed many times. He knows the stars to follow, the constellations by which he finds his way - and it is not long before he comes upon the Source, not long at all before he narrows in on the city of Ala Mhigo. Souls clutter the castle like candle flames, and no matter how much he trains his attention upon them there is no way to distinguish one soul from another. Several “flames” burn far, far brighter: four total, they are almost blinding to his aether-filled sight. Gathered as they are in the center of the city, G’raha can only assume they are in some way important.

Vahl...and the Scions…?

There is no way to know. There is no way to be certain. 

He must take the risk.

G’raha closes his eyes and stretches out his left hand as he points his staff towards the mirror. Focusing his attention allows his mirror to narrow in on the room, and though he cannot make out faces - there is too wide a gap; the space is blurred; he fights through space and time and clouds of dark shadow - words come to him even there. Voices - voices talking about - about Garlemald and - and the war and - the Warrior of Light’s place as they move into Ilsabard - 

Fear clenches around his heart like long, powerful fingers. Vahl cannot go to Garlemald! He _cannot_!

He twists the aether in his grasp even as he begins to murmur, as he mutters to himself, denying the path they are taking even as he attempts to redirect it.

History _must_ be changed!

There - _something_. Four somethings. The brighter flames, the powerful souls - he has caught them in his grasp! They fight against him, twisting through his aether like sand through his fingers - 

“Who is this?”

That voice - that _voice_! G’raha gasps with the pain of it, the shock of hearing it after so, so long, of wanting to cry out, “It’s me! It’s _me_ , saving _you_!” 

But he knows Vahl better than that. 

He tries to convince him - convince _all_ of them - mentioning the calamity, the Light, their dependence on Vahl to save two worlds - but he cannot be sure how much makes it across the boundless distance between them. He does not hear Vahl’s voice again, and as his strength begins to wane he abandons his attempt to convince them and instead does the same as he’d done in Eight Sentinels - with an added twist, thanks to his research into both the Ironworks’ old documents and the Allagans’ even older databases - 

“Let expanse contract, eon become instant -”

Power surges through him, channelling through the tower itself to make the leap across the interdimensional rift. He’s never felt anything like this - he is a mere conduit, an accessory to the magnitude of aether attempting to bridge the gap - and as he feels the spell _catch_ he pulls backwards, summoning the soul in his grasp.

A sound behind him makes him spin to face the room. In the center of the large, intricate floor spawns a single circle, over which hovers a slowly-rotating ring of power. Even as G’raha gapes at it, barely believing what he’s seeing, a beam of power shoots through the center of it. Stumbling down the steps of his dais, with nerves and exhaustion bringing shivers to his limbs and staggering his breath, G’raha stares at the naked figure that manifests inside that circle.

His first reaction is crushing disappointment. It’s a Hume - a Hyur - kneeling in front of him, but the white hair and build are not familiar.

G’raha has summoned a soul across the rift: the _wrong_ soul.

His second reaction is fascination. He _knows_ this Hume, though it be only from textbooks and faded paintings: to see this figure out of history - his own history! - alive and well in front of him is both overwhelming and extraordinary. Whether it is the wrong soul or not, he has done it! A connection has been made! He is finally, _finally_ on the right path!

If only Biggs could see him now!

“Where the blazes am I?”

He sees the man’s hands curl into fists and raises his staff in response. He’d hate to harm this stranger, but G’raha’s own survival is far more important to the fate of these worlds. “Thancred Waters, of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn?”

The Hume’s brown eyes shift to all corners of the room, no doubt looking for exits or weapons. “You and I are not destined to be friends if you answer my questions with more questions.”

“Ah.” Keeping his staff raised, G’raha backs up to the top of his dais. He shakes his head in an attempt to work past the mix of emotions and exhaustion coursing through him. “My apologies - for my questions, and for your presence here. It appears I have made a mistake.”

“Garlean? Ascian?” The Scion levers himself to his feet, standing unabashedly naked in the center of the Ocular. “What are you?”

The answer slips out of him without even considering the implications. “The people here call me the Crystal Exarch.” He gestures towards his crystal arm, which is now completely blue, and to the streaks of crystal on both sides of his neck. “While I may not be able to answer every question that comes to mind, I can at least confirm that I am neither Garlean nor Ascian.”

Thancred’s brow furrows as his eyes shift from G’raha’s crystal limb, to the Allagan staff - the Allagan staff! Which he no doubt recognizes as Allagan! - before it returns to the shadowy recesses of G’raha’s hood. “Friend or foe?”

“Friend,” G’raha says firmly. He cannot hide the staff behind him or attempt to downplay it, just as he cannot hide the tower they are within at this very moment: of course Thancred will recognize it! Of course he will know its history! Flustered and fighting different trains of thought, G’raha redirects his attention to the most important thing in the room. “This world is in need of saving, and in desperation I attempted to summon your Warrior of Light. I seem to have missed.”

Thancred glares at him under his shaggy white bangs before running his hand through his hair and letting the mess of it flop back against his head. “Let us say I believe you - which I do not, to be clear - and take your words at face value. What world is this? The New World to the west? The Far, Far East? You have to pardon my lack of geographical knowledge -”

“You are no longer on the Source,” G’raha interrupts. The man goes very, very still. “You have crossed the rift, Mister Waters, and now find yourself a guest on the First.”

All of the blood drains out of the Hume’s face as he staggers back a step; his poise and control slip as he begins to shake his head. “The First? The First _shard_? The world threatened by Light?”

“You know of us!” G’raha exclaims, openly delighted that he won’t have to take the time to explain about the Source and its shards, but the man’s next words dash that joy to shreds.

“Where is Minfilia?”

“Ah.” G’raha sees Thancred’s expression change and realizes his mistake a moment too late. “I am sorry, but -” The Scion moves impressively fast, surging up the stairs to grab the front of G'raha's robes grasped in both hands. Rather than resist G’raha allows himself to be slammed against the dull crystal mirror behind him; his shoulders hit the surface hard as he struggles to keep his feet.

“I am not going to ask again.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” G’raha replies testily. “But if you think threatening me is going to dispense positive answers I shall unfortunately have to relieve you of your misunderstandings.”

“I -“ Thancred’s head drops forward; G’raha hears his choked struggle to breathe. The man’s hands release him as he steps back, moving unsteadily down the dais. “You know of Minfilia.”

“The legend of the Oracle of Light is known by every soul on the First,” he replies quietly. “But the Minfilia of this world is not the Minfilia you remember.”

Misery and bleak acceptance tighten the man’s face as he takes a deep, shaky breath. “Tell me.”

*

G’raha sits across from Thancred, his fingers steepled over his lap as he watches the man read through a children’s book detailing the history of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Hume who repeatedly appears across Norvrandt. They have moved into another of the tower’s many rooms, somewhere less private and full of plush chairs, and Thancred has donned a simple white robe usually preferred by the chirugeons. 

Strange that his clothes did not accompany him. Strange that _nothing_ on his person made the jump across the rift. G’raha had kept his own clothes - the entire tower, actually, had retained everything within it - but for Thancred to appear naked does not have reassuring connotations.

Those are thoughts for another day: at this moment he must reason with the struggling stranger in front of him.

Thancred closes the children’s book and curls forward, covering his face with his hands as he rests his elbows on his knees. His voice is muffled behind his palms. “She dies?”

“Always.”

“And this - this Oracle of Light -” He pauses, taking a shaky breath in the interim, before trying again. “Is she gone?”

“We do not know. She has not been seen in almost a century.”

“Where was she last?”

G’raha shakes his head. “I apologize, but I am not about to set you on a wild chocobo chase across Norvrandt when you know nothing of this world and the dangers it holds.”

“But you would’ve done so if I was Vahl, wouldn’t you?” Bitterness curls through the Hume’s voice before he curses and pushes himself to his feet. “Tell me. Prepare me. Do whatever you need to so I can leave this blasted tower and find her.”

“Minfilia, or the Oracle?”

Thancred freezes. He slowly turns around, his chin lowered and a look in his eyes that makes G’raha want to reach for his staff. “Is there a Minfilia currently alive?”

He shouldn’t say anything. Whatever comes of this will not go well - might even detract from everything G’raha has worked for! The effects of Thancred meddling with this one child could ripple through Norvrandt and divide what fragile peace G’raha has managed to forge between that damned city on the coast and his own! 

But if G’raha doesn’t tell him someone else will.

“She is held captive in Eulmore. She has been for many years.”

Thancred shakes his head; he doesn’t know the place, let alone understand what that means. “Captive? Why?”

G’raha simply gestures to the chair the Hume had just vacated. “Are you going to allow me to tell my story, or are you going to leap to conclusions and hasty actions without any thought to this new world around you?”

“Am I being scolded by someone playing with Allagan magicks? Someone who has _clearly_ not done enough research?”

“I have researched and experimented for three of your lifetimes,” G’raha comments lightly, picking at a loose thread on his cuff. “I apologize for my error, and will continue to apologize with every opportunity, but I do what I must to save this world - this world that even your friend recognized the importance of. If you would not help the First for me, would you perhaps be swayed by your Minfilia’s sacrifice?”

Thancred's glare shifts into snarl, but he takes his seat. “Talk, then - justify _this_.”

With a heart weighed down by the Hume’s attitude and his own aching disappointment, G’raha begins to explain. 

*

He doesn’t tell the entire story. 

Norvrandt’s history is easy. The Flood and the Oracle of Light are fact, and Thancred will hear similar tales from anyone he asks. The Crystarium’s meagre beginnings also require little effort to explain, and the similarities and differences between this shard and the Source are easily picked up by his quick-witted guest. 

Sin eaters and Lightwardens are harder. The danger they represent - and the roles they play in life on the First - are easier understood when witnessed firsthand. 

G’raha does not mention the impending Calamity. 

What would be the point? Thancred will not believe him without proof, and proving that he has travelled through time and space requires more thought and effort than G’raha is ready for. 

Would he have told Vahl? If he’d summoned the right soul would he have taken off the cloak, revealed his entire truth, and worked with the Warrior of Light as a true equal?

Impossible to say, and worthless to speculate upon. Vahl is not here, and Thancred believes so little of what he’s already been told that mentioning time travel would break whatever feeble trust they have managed to scrape together. G’raha will remain hooded for the foreseeable future. 

Thancred is pacing by the time G’raha finishes, striding between the two chairs with his hands on his hips. “Your goal is to eradicate the Light?”

“In short, yes.”

“And you have not established how?”

“We believe it is tied to the sin eaters wandering Norvrandt, but ever since Eulmore forged an alliance with the creatures it has been increasingly difficult to work against them.” G’raha knows some of his calm demeanor slips, but his disapproval of the city’s new “partners” is impossible to hide. “Myself and a team of researchers are working towards a solution. I had hoped Vahl would be able to assist - it is clear he is a hero which few can compare to.”

“Been spying on us, eh?”

G’raha shrugs. “Would you not do the same if your world faced annihilation?”

Thancred finally stops pacing, coming to a halt with his back to G’raha. “Minfilia came here to stop the Light from destroying this world. If we might dispel it completely, perhaps there is a chance…” He trails off as he looks down at his empty palms. “I will need weapons.”

“I will be happy to provide weapons, armour, and whatever else you might desire.”

“Whatever else I desire…” Thancred murmurs. He snorts and shakes his head. “Be careful what you offer, Exarch.” He turns towards G’raha and gestures at himself. “Let us begin, shall we? Weapons and armour, and whatever else.”

“You are ready for the world beyond this tower?”

Thancred waves a hand dismissively. “New places are what I do.”

Even as G’raha begins to rise he hears a flurry of footsteps on the stairs outside their small room, footsteps that quickly pass them by as they make their way up to his usual Ocular. He hurries past Thancred, throwing open the small blue-and-gold door to rush out onto the cavernous stairs. “Hello?”

A group of Crystarium soldiers halts, staggering somewhat as they reorient to race back down to him, with Lyna bringing up the rear.

“My lord!” Her soldiers give way, allowing her to move to the front of the group; she quickly salutes him, but it is clear from her expression that they have larger concerns than protocol. “Dampsole and the Mortal Irons are under attack!”

“Eaters?”

“With a Lightwarden, ser!”

Fear and excitement course through G’raha. This could be it - this could be the moment! The revelation they have been searching for! The final piece of the puzzle! It comes at a high risk for all who take to the field, but if they can manage to kill the creature…!

He turns back to the doorway, finding Thancred watching warily. “Are you well enough to fight?”

The glint in the Hume’s eyes is a touch unnerving. “Wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t. Where are we going?”

“West.” G’raha glances to Lyna, whose shock at finding a stranger in the tower leaves her mouth gaping. “We’ll be joining you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild Scion appears! It uses Angst and Guilt, but it isn't very effective...
> 
> My PC went _kaplut_ this morning, so I am going to either:  
> a) churn out chapters at the speed of light to pretend like I'm not completely missing Tuesday's patch  
> b) slow down to snail speeds because I can no longer log in to research lore and locations and dialogue and -
> 
> Fingers crossed for option A!


	37. Interlude: Make a Friend of Horror

Enormous grey walls of smoke block their vision; fires rage through the Hour of Certain Durance and the Mortal Irons, billowing out of broken windows and licking up to the white, swirling sky. Few buildings are unscathed: if not touched by fire they have fallen prey to the Lightwarden’s wanton destruction. G’raha and Thancred fly atop two amaro, hovering bare ilms above the pastel treetops just east of the Mortal Irons with a dozen mounted soldiers flapping around them, all waiting for Lyna's signal.

G’raha wishes she wasn’t here. If he could he’d have locked her in the tower, given her control of his mirror, and allowed her to dictate from afar by linkpearl - but the tower would not respond to her, even if she consented to such an idea. The chances of _that_ are astronomically slim, and so G’raha finds himself dividing his attention between monsters and the only family he has left. 

Thancred, meanwhile, is hunched low over his mount. If the shock of Lakeland’s colour palette hadn’t completely sent his mind spinning, G’raha is confident the sin eaters have blown every witty comment out of the Hume’s head. White beasts and a sky clouded by aether are enough to sit anyone back on their heels, but the addition of a Lightwarden is beyond eye-opening. From this distance most of the Lightwarden’s body is blocked by trees, but a long, twisting neck snakes out over the ruins of Dampsole. The head is no wider than the neck, with four slitted eyes just above a wide, gaping mouth. Like a snake’s head with leathery skin and a mass of jutting, curved teeth, even its face is enough to send chills down G’raha’s spine. 

“I hate it,” Thancred mutters. “Quite possibly the worst welcoming party on record.” He pats the borrowed daggers at his hips with a frown; they had managed to scavenge an old set of leathers, mixed with some of the Crystarium’s lighter armour, but he is clearly off-balance in the strange, ill-fitting garb. “Our goal is to kill it?”

“Yes,” G’raha says, pulling his gaze away from the Warden to watch the flying eaters harrying the prison complex built among the hills. Black smoke rolls out of the prison itself as wood-and-tile roofs collapse into the stone structure; screams and cries for help reach them even here. “Destroy any white cocoons you see.”

“Cocoons…?” Thancred frowns. “I believe I’m better off not-knowing.”

“What I would not give for ignorance,” G’raha murmurs. He points to the ground-level section of the complex: known as the Mortal Irons, it housed the prison wardens and the administrative suite. It looks little better than the gaols above it, as land-bound eaters rampage through the facility. “Lyna will focus on survivors, but if we’re to end this massacre we must dispatch their leader.”

“Like an insect hive,” Thancred says. “Understood.”

“Don’t let them touch you.”

The man’s head slowly turns to G’raha; his eyes are narrowed to slits. “Is that not always the goal?”

“It is a little more important against sin eaters,” G’raha says, gazing at the Warden as it roars and begins to move north. “I would hate to cut you out of a cocoon.”

Thancred’s flurry of curses is cut off by a horn from below the trees; another answers it from the Ostall Imperative, and the commander of the amaro-borne troops sounds his own in response. 

G’raha’s stomach flips and twists as his sweaty palms grip the amaro’s reins. His knees signal the beast southward, following after the soldiers around him, but he is very, very glad his hood hides his face. Whatever inspiration or reassurance the soldiers around him might gain by his presence would surely be undone were they to see the sweat dripping down his brow or the unease wrinkling his forehead. 

This is a risk. This is a stupid, asinine risk. He - of _all_ people - should be nowhere near danger of this kind! How will he save two worlds if he dies _here_?

Desperate times. Desperate measures. Desperate attempts to have a plan in place for Vahl’s arrival. If they could just manage to kill the creature - to prove it can be done -

Ignoring common sense and his own multitude of doubts, G’raha follows the soldiers south. 

*

It isn’t going well. 

Eaters die just as any beast would, and they rarely have any abilities or tricks beyond what might be encountered in normal creatures, but their single-minded determination sets them apart. They cannot be scared, cannot be intimidated, and can rarely be tricked: they can be baited, yes, but baiting a swarm would be suicide for anyone caught within the rolling, devouring, consuming mass. Most dangerous of all - and what makes even Thancred begin to worry - is their ability to increase their number mid-battle.

There is nothing quite so unnerving as fighting an enemy that once was a friend.

G’raha destroys every cocoon he finds lest the monsters within spawn and join the horde, but for every three he finds twice that number hatch. As the Crystarium’s numbers decrease the sin eaters multiply.

“Not a fan of our odds!” Thancred shouts mid-battle, ducking under an eater’s pincers to drive both daggers up through the bottom of its jaw and out the top of its tiny head. “Any bright ideas for the big one?”

G’raha unleashes a burst of dark energy, allowing his Foul spell to rip apart trees and buildings even as it annihilates the eaters caught in its pull, before lowering his staff to stare out at what remains of the Mortal Irons. Most of the fires have dwindled to low, smoking rubble, while the buildings are deserted and scorched black. The gaols on the second level are no better: half have been completely scoured down to the earth, while the prison wardens are still desperately trying to reach the prisoners locked in the still-standing cells. The Lightwarden itself has pulled its long, fat body several yalms beyond Dampsole; it has fins rather than legs, which restrains it somewhat, but that snakelike neck and head have no difficulty lashing out with ferocious speed. 

“Behind it!” G’raha calls. “While it’s distracted!”

“I always love a blindspot!” Thancred vanishes, leaving G’raha hurrying to press forward in the direction he assumes the Hume took. Crystarium soldiers rush in front of him, eager to defend their one and only Exarch. 

Not that he _needs_ defending, but he does appreciate the sentiment. 

For every eater the soldiers distract G’raha is able to bind another two, locking them in place so that he may sprint across the smoke-covered battlefield towards the still-roaring Warden. Thancred is ahead of him somewhere, lost in the clouds of smoke and the bodies and the crumbling walls that - only this morning! - made up the prison, and Lyna is nearby shouting orders, and the people he has grown to consider his own are around him fighting - _dying_ \- 

G’raha skids to a stop the moment the Lightwarden is in range, as it towers above flames and rubble and bodies and cocoons. Thancred appears just as G’raha begins to draw upon his aether - the Scion is several fulms above the back-end of the Warden, visible mid-leap with daggers clutched in both hands - and as the twin blades bite deep G’raha unleashes a torrent of fire aether towards the eater’s front.

The _sound_ that escapes it shudders across every mortal within range. G’raha’s first reaction is to cover his ears, and he sees others doing the same as the piercing wail stretches on, and on, and on, and - 

An arrow pierces its neck, and then another - G’raha twists to the west to see a half-dozen prisoners have taken up arms against the eater. Marked by their shabby grey outfits, they stand in a line along the cliff and fire volley after volley towards the shrieking, frantic Warden.

“Bring it down!” G’raha shouts, catching the attention of the soldiers around him. “Kill it!”

Thancred dodges fin, body, and a two-pronged tail as he darts around the Warden, littering its white hide with dark, oozing gashes. G’raha isn’t the only mage unleashing fire and ice: black mages and arcanists and even a few healers turn their attention to the flailing, furious eater as it becomes clear they are finally beginning to make a dent in it. The smaller eaters flock to its side, desperate to push back the melee from their leader, and G’raha picks off the distracted creatures one by one - until he sees the Warden curl its neck forward and close its eyes. Aether floods towards it like water in a tub suddenly drained, and G’raha swiftly creates a protective shield around himself and the soldiers closest to him - but there is nothing he can do for the rest, without even time to shout - 

The Holy spell chimes like a church bell as white aether brightens the entire area. Everyone outside of G’raha’s barrier is caught mid-action - blades raised, spells cut-off mid-utterance, arrows dropping from suddenly-limp strings - and the smaller sin eaters waste no time.

Though the magic lasts only seconds, it is enough.

G’raha can only watch in horror as the eaters take the opening they’re given. His friends and colleagues - his _people_ \- cannot even scream as the eaters descend upon them. He shifts his aether towards white magic even as the stunning spell wears off; his attention turns entirely to the bodies closest to him as everyone leaps back into motion.

Thancred will have to deal with the Warden without him.

*

Hunger battles exhaustion as morning all-too-quickly becomes afternoon. There is no end to the soldiers needing healing, and G’raha finds himself steadily moving southward as Lyna’s reserves press forward in a desperate attempt to bring the healers where they’re needed most. Amaro-borne soldiers carry the worst-wounded back towards the Ostall Imperative, and though they’re clearly pushing the line of eaters back G’raha is not sure they can hold the momentum. This battle has gone on for hours, with only a few chances for reprieve, but so long as the Lightwarden remains beached between Dampsole and the gaol the eaters continue to flock towards it. Every eater in Lakeland seems to have joined the fray, and though Lyna had called in every soldier she has it _still_ might not be enough.

“Where the hell is Eulmore?” One of Lyna’s commanders has been repeating the same refrain for thirty minutes, growling it more and more desperately as he escorts G’raha and three other healers slowly towards the beach. “Why did they not answer our summons?”

G’raha bites his tongue and focuses on the young lancer under his hands. Blue healing aether pulses around the girl, strengthening what it can even as it chases out infection and allows her wounds to close. He cannot spare the time to apply bandages, instead leaving her so he may kneel beside the next groaning, bleeding body.

Eulmore did not come because Eulmore was not called for: Lyna could not be sure if the island city would come to their aid or to the eaters’, and rather than take the risk she had sent no word west. 

The Lightwarden’s piercing shriek again splits the air. Even as he covers his hood with bloody hands G’raha stumbles back to his feet, desperately pushing past soldiers to gain a view of the Warden unhindered by trees and ash-covered rock.

Black blood oozes from hundreds of cuts and scars along the Warden’s snow-white skin. Lacerations marr both sides as arrows jut from all over its body; the pain of it has clearly begun to drive it mad, as it squeals and roars, flailing one way and then another. Its tail sends up great bursts of sand and rock as the melee soldiers around it begin to fall back - and still the archers press on! Arrows and bullets and even the occasional chakram leave more seeping wounds, more shuddering flesh, and G’raha finds himself completely swept up in it.

“All attention on the Warden!” he shouts, overriding Lyna’s moaning commander. “Everything you have!” 

Magic and daggers and attacks from afar: the overwhelming amount of damage finally begins to overpower the enormous monster in front of them. Even as its flailing fins swat soldiers like flies, more move forward in a desperate attempt to bring an end to it - 

G’raha doesn’t see who let the arrow fly, and in the end it doesn’t matter: by luck or by divine intervention a single arrow penetrates one of the creature’s four eyes. The head snaps back, revealing the barest sliver of shaft and fletching, and as G’raha gasps the neck collapses forward. It slams into the rock and sand beneath it and sends up waves of dirt and ash that roll out over everyone nearby.

Silence. Crackling flames and the occasional groan are strangely startling in the sudden absence of battle, and then - 

Sin eaters take wing, or flee on foot, bounding between buildings and soldiers in a desperate attempt to put as much distance between them and the defending mortals as possible. A few soldiers lash out, killing whatever they can reach, but the majority stare, awestruck, at the fallen body of the Lightwarden.

“Move back!” G’raha cries, his lone voice shattering the silence. “Move away from it! Now!”

A zone of space forms around the creature, broken only by the fallen soldiers crushed into the sand. Everyone waits with bated breath - is it dead? Truly, completely dead? Or does it lie in wait -

“It goes!”

The body of the Lightwarden suddenly disperses into an enormous cloud of white aether - like stars revolving in mid-air, or fireflies swarming over a field - and for a moment the skies over Lakeland are covered not by pearlescent Light but by the slate-grey clouds G’raha remembers from the Source. Rain clouds, fluffy and low and dark - promising gentle showers, and a wondrous smell, and fresh earth - 

He sees the aether pulse forward and, thinking of Titania, seeks out Thancred amongst the crowd. A twist of the aether in his hands catches the Hume round the middle, and with a hard tug Thancred is dragged, arms flailing, towards G’raha.

“Thal’s balls, man! What the hell -”

“Back, back, back!” G’raha grabs Thancred’s wrist and pulls him north, over rocks and bodies and the remains of shattered cocoons, across land stained red and white even as the soldiers around them do the same. “Away from the aether!”

A stampede of soldiers surges away from that shimmering power - but as G’raha twists his neck to watch, he realizes not everyone is able to run.

The dead Lightwarden’s aether narrows to a delicate funnel, like a tornado of light stretching its delicate tail to earth, before gently passing between the bars in the nearest locked gaol.

“Gods,” G’raha murmurs. “Oh, gods, it’s going to happen again.”

Thancred stares at him, blood dripping from a vicious cut across his forehead, but there is nothing they can do. Aether seeps down into that lone, still-standing building, and as it quickly begins to disappear G’raha changes direction and runs to the forest, leading Thancred and many of the soldiers to safety under its dark boughs.

The sky flickers once - twice - 

Pearlescent aether slide across the rain clouds once again, suffusing the land in Light even as a deafening roar shatters the silence they had worked so hard to bring about. Stone blocks fly across the sky as the remaining prison cell explodes with the force of the transformation, and within a breath the cliff is overtaken by a creature with white feathers, massive chains, and a ghastly purple tongue coiling down its white-and-purple chest. 

“Time to go!” It’s Thancred’s turn to pull him back, dragging him through the purple forest with the remnants of the Crystarium’s armed force, and though G’raha resists it is half-hearted at best. He wants to fall to his knees, to scream right back, to unleash bolt after bolt of aether at the unfortunate soul towering over them - 

All of this work - all these years - all of the lives dedicated to this all-important mission - and it stalls _here_ , with _him_.

Too distraught to remember he can teleport, G’raha follows Thancred and the rabble of soldiers east.

*

“It isn’t your fault.”

G’raha doesn’t look away from his crystal mirror. The scene depicted across its smooth surface does nothing to quell his maelstrom of emotions: the new Lightwarden wanders north, accompanied by a fresh swarm of sin eaters and leaving new cocoons in its wake. It has taken the western pass bordering Laxan Loft - a mercifully deserted stretch of land - and calls to abandon the northern settlements have already spread throughout all of Lakeland. Whether it seeks new prey or is already sated G’raha cannot tell, but it matters not.

“How many did we lose?” he asks. Somehow his voice is steady.

“We are still tallying -”

_“How many did we lose?”_

Lyna is silent for a moment. “Rough estimates put our losses somewhere between two and three hundred soldiers and civilians. Fifty of those were living at the Hour of Certain Durance.” She hesitates again, before quietly adding, “Including the poor soul who became the Warden. He was a prisoner.”

“That explains the chains,” G’raha says dully. He dispels the scene in his mirror and turns around, finally taking in Lyna and Thancred. Neither of them look well: scars and bandages cover them both, and dark circles under their eyes give testament to the same kind of sleepless night G’raha himself experienced. “I apologize for pushing forward. I should have realized that what happened to Titania could happen here just as easily. It was a foolish - and costly - mistake.”

“Explain to me what happened,” Thancred states, crossing his arms over his chest and bowing his head. “The aether…?”

“It seems a Lightwarden’s aether does not dissipate, but is drawn to nearby living creatures. This is our second experience with the death of such a creature, so this is still largely guesswork, but I would assume the aether passes from one individual to the next, converting their very essence.” G’raha rubs at his forehead; were he the type to turn to drink he has no doubts he’d be several bottles deep already. “They are imperative to the removal of the Light that plagues this world, but if we cannot destroy them…”

“Perhaps -” Lyna stops, her cheeks flushing pink, but at Thancred’s urging she hesitantly continues, “Perhaps the Warrior of Darkness…?”

G’raha looks away even as the Scion’s gaze sharpens. “We cannot assume others will fight our battles for us. We must needs endeavor to uncover this solution ourselves.”

“Of course, my lord.” The Viis bows - once to him, and again to Thancred. “If you’ll pardon me, I have to make my rounds.”

Thancred waits until the Ocular door closes before jumping on the obvious topic. “What does she mean - Warrior of Darkness? Like Arbert and the rest, the ones Minfilia saved…?”

“To you - from a world where Light is viewed favourably, and Warriors of Light even more so - a Warrior of Darkness would be a creature akin to the Ascians. To the people of Norvrandt, which is threatened on all sides by creatures and powers tuned to Light, a Warrior of Darkness is the mystical figure they call upon to save them. No such person exists, of course, but every land needs their legends - their heroes, if you will.”

“Vahl. You’re talking about Vahl.”

G’raha goes very, very still. Admitting it seems ridiculous; far-fetched; childish; and yet - 

“If I can summon Vahl here, and he is able to save them, would he not fit that definition?”

Thancred snorts. “Yes, but right now ‘saving them’ looks impossible no matter who’s helming the effort. Tell me you’re got _some_ ideas.”

“I…” G’raha looks at his crystal hand and the Allagan staff in its grasp. Does he? Does he have _anything_ workable? “I would much appreciate your opinion, Mister -”

“Thancred,” the man says. “If we’re to work together, _please_ call me Thancred. And of course you can have my opinion - my knowledge, whatever expertise I might have, my time, whatever! I am at your disposal, Exarch, for as long as it takes.” He raises an eyebrow. “Though I will ask one thing in return.”

“Anything.”

A humourless smile slides over Thancred’s face. “Introduce me to your finest tutor with ranged weaponry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late! Ahhh! I apologize, and give you an extra 700 words to make up for it! With luck I'll have my computer back and fixed and running just fine sometime this week, and then I'll be back on schedule! (And will finally understand all these red chocobo memes...)
> 
> Thank you, and you, and you, and ESPECIALLY you, for reading.


	38. Interlude: Revelations

“That seems unusually dangerous - even for you.”

G’raha tilts his head in acknowledgement even as he crouches to stare at the small, bright crystal on the table. “Desperate times.”

“Your motto for the last decade.”

G’raha shifts to stare at Travyrs, who leans heavily on a cane near the edge of the table. They are in the Elf’s room in the Pendants - the same one he has lived in for years; the same one he rarely ever leaves - and G’raha’s latest experiment sits between them. “Thancred thought of it, actually. I’ve just been going along with the idea.”

The Elf snorts in disbelief. “ _Thancred_ thought of it? Between taking pot-shots at eaters and planning his next break-in to Eulmore?”

“He’s more intelligent than he looks.”

“He’d have to be,” Travyrs mutters. “Alright - so you’ve trapped an eater’s aether within this crystal. What comes next?” 

“A trick all my own.”

*

The “trick” is a more laborious twist of magic than he expected it to be. Though he has had decades of practice with his Allagan tower, opening a portal directly into the interdimensional rift - rather than to a shard directly - is a bit of magic that vexes him for far longer than it should. Once it finally works and a portal to the stars bobs in front of him he tosses the small crystal into it, closes the portal, and waits for any sign that the aether might return. 

After hours with no sign of the Light aether's return, G'raha finally leaves his Umbilicus, content that he has solved at least one aspect of this tangled mess. 

One step closer.

*

As weeks quickly turn to months Thancred visits the Crystarium less and less. His desire to help with G’raha’s biggest problem - where to store a Lightwarden’s worth of aether - is quickly overcome by his search for the Oracle of Light and the child Minfilia, and he becomes a frequent sight wandering the slums below Eulmore. Whenever he does drop in G’raha does his best to question the man, but out of all the Scions Thancred is perhaps the least interested in the study of aether and magic. He says so himself - quite often and with increasing volume - but the point still stands that G’raha cannot summon Vahl to save the world until they know _how_ Vahl might go about doing so.

“White auracite has been sufficient in the past,” Thancred says tensely. G’raha managed to corner him near the Amaro Launch, but the gunbreaker is clearly eager to be elsewhere. “Should you require something to hold large quantities of aether.”

“Temporarily,” G’raha argues. “White auracite would need to be conveyed quickly to another point in order to be destroyed, and in the meantime would present a risk to all nearby.”

Thancred groans and leans against the metal railing near the Launch, crossing one ankle over the other as he closes his eyes and appears to settle back in thought. The amaro handlers and ticket-takers nearby do their best not to be obvious about listening in, but their curiosity concerning their Crystal Exarch has only grown with the addition of his strange, furtive friend. 

“I need something to hold massive quantities of aether,” G’raha says, even though he knows he has told Thancred this multiple times before. “White auracite - in the amount we have ready at hand - is not sufficient.”

“Try a soul, then!” Thancred throws his hands in the air. “If I can be a bloody Ascian vessel I’m damned sure someone else can do the same for a Lightwarden. Now, if you’ll excuse me -”

“They would _become_ a Lightwarden.”

“Even if the power was taken voluntarily? A Lightwarden’s aether corrupts a weak soul, just as the eaters we’ve seen do in smaller amounts, but the stronger ones persist with no ill effects. Set a strong soul up against a Lightwarden and see if the Light does not roost in the body itself, without overpowering the soul.” Thancred suddenly frowns. “I dislike the look on your face.”

“It’s called a smile,” G’raha replies distractedly, his mind already rushing through possibilities. If a soul was strong enough - but how strong? How does one know? How could one possibly measure a soul without risking the integrity of it? Unless - “Tell me everything you know about the Blessing of Light.”

Thancred’s eyes widen. “You play a dangerous game, Exarch.”

“I always have.” He nods his head back to the Crystal Tower. “Spare a moment?”

The Hume looks longingly at the amaro handlers, clearly wanting nothing more than to take to the skies and resume his search for the Minfilia he lost, but eventually his shoulders slump and he waves his hand towards the tower. “Lead on.”

*

G’raha sits alone in bed, his knees against his chest with his hands intertwined around his shins. A single candle throws a warm orange glow around the room, though most of the space is lost to darkness beyond the three or so fulms of illumination. The hour is late - or early - and G’raha should be asleep, but tears slide down his cheeks as he stares at the small, ancient painting of himself and Vahl.

“It would have been wonderful,” he murmurs, gently running his crystal fingers against the wood of the picture frame. “ _We_ would have been wonderful. I waited - I waited for _so long_ -” His voice cracks and he rests his forehead against his knees as more tears spill free, as his heart twists inside his chest, as he wants to deny it - to argue for any other fate - 

Perhaps it would have been kinder to send someone else to the First and allow himself to slip into the unknown with Derrik and Biggs. Perhaps life would have hurt a little less not to be taunted by this - this - this _finality_ \- this inescapable sacrifice - this last, most precious of his endeavors - 

Had he known back at the start, on that very first night when he’d stood on Eight Sentinels’ stone walls and looked out over the snow-covered emptiness of Mor Dhona, that the cost would be _everything_ \- every single ounce of his heart, soul, and power - would he have said yes? Or would he have turned aside and retreated back into the tower, admitting salvation came at too high a cost?

He doesn’t think so. Had this journey been spelled out for him even then, he would like to believe he would still agree to do it. What an adventure it has been, after all! What a wonderful, amazing life! No one else can say they have come even close to this - this world-spanning, time-traveling, magical existence he has been graced with. Who would have ever guessed what lay in store for a simple soul like G’raha Tia?

“Perhaps a happy ending was too much to ask,” he murmurs, wiping his cheeks with the backs of his hands. “But, _gods_ -” He tenses as tears nearly overwhelm him again; he glances over his knees to the simple painting of Vahl. “I would have loved you until the end - until whatever end! Your end, or…” The thought proves too much and he again bows his head, allowing the trickle of tears to land against his lap.

The morning does not come quickly.

*

Lyna notices the change in him first. He can sense her worry, even as her gaze follows him every chance she has, but he avoids her questions and tries to keep himself busy throughout the Crystarium. Watching the space change and grow - watching a beautiful city sprout from the muck and scattered dwellings it had started as - is almost enough to distract him from the sadness that lurks just one thought away.

It’s Travyrs, grey-haired and heavily wrinkled and still - _still!_ \- refusing to leave his rooms, who drills into him the next time G’raha visits. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” G’raha chides, gazing into the mug cradled in his hands. He sits at the end of the old table, squeezed between crates of books and yellowing scrolls. “I am simply busy.”

“You’ve been busy for ninety years,” the Elf retorts in his gravely, low rumble. He putters around the kitchen as he talks, gathering sweets and breads from his many cupboards while preparing his own mug of tea. “This is different. Lyna says so.”

“Of course she does.”

Travyrs wags a finger in his direction. “Ah, don’t give me that! She’s more than allowed to!” Finally having gathered everything he needs, he plunks the tray of food in front of G’raha before taking the seat nearest him. “What’s gone wrong, my friend?”

Worded in such a way, with a kind, worried tone Travyrs rarely ever takes, cracks the feeble shell G’raha had managed to erect around himself. He cringes, groans because he cringes, and releases the mug to slide both hands over his hooded ears. “I am - coming to terms, I suppose, with an unpleasant revelation.”

“Regarding the Light? Norvrandt?”

He shakes his head. “A personal revelation. I suppose you may say it concerns my own mortality.”

“Ah.”

Rather than deal with _that_ line of thought and inevitable questions concerning his strange longevity, G’raha forges onwards. “It is simply a matter of - of adjustment, I suppose.”

Travyrs narrows his eyes. “You’re not about to do something foolish, are you?”

“No, no.” He doesn’t say what he thinks - that this is the least foolish thing he’s ever considered - and focuses instead on working through the problem at hand. “May I ask your opinion?”

“Of course - always. Without a doubt.”

“Say there are - are two paths, I suppose,” G’raha says, closing his eyes. “Both lead to the same destination, but on one path you go alone. You _can_ do it alone, because you’ve been doing it alone for so many years and you’re used to that, really.” He draws a deep, shaky breath as he fights for serenity. “The other path you travel with someone else. It’s - it’s indescribable how much better it is, but - but at the end -” He breathes hard through his nose. “At the end the other person is hurt. Not killed, but - hurt.”

“You already know what path you’re taking,” Travyrs murmurs. “You know, and I know, and anyone else you pose this query to will know. What is it you ask of me?”

“Gods,” he murmurs, sliding his hands under his hood to rub his eyes. “I’m truly not sure. Reassurance, perhaps? A vote of confidence?”

“What more can I give you that you do not know yourself? A life of solitude versus knowingly bringing harm to another person? Our Crystal Exarch would not consider such a thing - and my friend wouldn't, either.” Travyrs’s heavy hand drops onto G’raha’s shoulder. “I may not know the specifics, but I know you would never forgive yourself if you chose the second path.”

It hurts as he expected it to, as it has been hurting since he first made his revelation, but is this entire adventure not to save the world? This has never been about him - this has never been about him and Vahl together - this has _always_ been a fight to save two worlds! Always! That it is he and Vahl - lovers lost across time and space - is a coincidence known only to G'raha! If that knowledge dies with him who does it hurt? How will it hamper the survival of millions of souls if Vahl is greeted by a stranger - if the Exarch never removes his hood? The Crystal Exarch and Vahl Rime can save the world just as surely as G’raha and Vahl can!

“You’re not dying, are you?”

He bursts out laughing at the unexpected question, feeling a flush of colour cover his cheeks. “Gods, no! Not yet!” The humour fades as he realizes what walking this path _truly_ means, and his smile turns bittersweet. “Not until I’ve done what I have to.”

“Exarch -”

“ _Please_ ,” he says, somewhat forcibly. “Let us talk of anything else. I have time ahead of me yet and a world to save, so put these thoughts from your mind! Tell me instead - how goes your research into the other Lightwardens?”

“Ah! Well!”

Tucking his feet underneath him and pulling his mug close to his chest, the Exarch settles in to listen.

*

“Second attempt,” G’raha says, flattening out his robes so that his reflection seems a little more refined. It wouldn’t do to summon the Warrior of Light looking as though he hasn’t slept - even if he has, in fact, been awake for almost twenty hours - but his nerves have been plaguing him for days. The tower’s reserves have finally built to a point where it will allow him to stretch his hand across the rift once again.

Two years. Two long, busy years - but finally he is ready. Finally he will set this world to rights.

G’raha flicks a finger towards the mirror. A sea of stars opens up in front of him, dark and ever-expanding and comforting, somehow - as though he missed this, this old problem he spent so many years navigating. He can still remember the Ironworks fighting about how to traverse it - and though it takes him a long, embarrassing moment he pulls the name from his memory: Chalvatot had compared it to threading a needle from across a room. 

There is a moment of guilt - a lingering uneasiness or worry that it is a sign of something larger - but he has lived for over a century! He cannot be blamed, surely, for forgetting a name or two. He has not forgotten where he came from; he has not forgotten the people who sent him on his way. Even Chalvatot - fragmented and hazy in his recollections of a life long, long gone - is a happy memory that becomes stronger the longer he thinks of him.

He owes all of this hope to the people of Eight Sentinels. Reflecting upon their memories is the very least he can do.

The spell is easier this time; the process faster; the effort not nearly so draining. He still cannot sense Vahl clearly: the Scions are no longer in Ala Mhigo. Rather than panic he concentrates on the memory, on the feel of that distant soul, the voice carried through infinity, and sends his prowling aether across the wide expanse of Eorzea. He is not surprised to find Vahl in the Rising Stones - at least, he thinks it is Vahl. There are four bright souls there and another just north of the Burn - he cannot explain the lone soul, and leaves it be to focus on the four in the location he knows. 

Again he pleads. Again he tries to explain - to reason with them - to say without saying - but he cannot be sure how much comes through. The rift is wide and he is one small mage holding the thinnest of magicks; he would honestly be surprised if they heard him at all. The distance drags more aether from the tower, strains it to the very depths, and in frustration he _pulls_ -

That _sound_ blares across his Ocular - that noise that comes with the tower opening a portal between one world and the next - and G’raha turns around, both hoping and dreading what lies before him. 

_Two_ portals? 

It is double the disappointment in this case: even with twice the luck he has _still_ not summoned Vahl!

He stares morosely at the two naked strangers stumbling to their feet. He knows of them from history, of course, but he has never met them in person: the Elf, Urianger, and the Mystel, Y’shtola. Seeing the fire in the Mystel’s milky white eyes, he decides to take no chances.

“Break!”

She halts, bound in place even as she raises her hand - what she would cast without a weapon he does not know, and does not _want_ to know - but her low growl fills the chamber. The Elf seems taken aback, if not overtly worried; he does not resist as magic roots his bare feet to the carpeted floor beneath him.

“I am a friend,” G’raha says, his voice strong as adamant as he stares down at the two Scions. “Thancred is with me. I have been attempting to summon Vahl Rime to this world, and as you can no doubt surmise the distance plays havoc with my ability to do so. I would be indebted to you if you would lend your aid to my cause: the salvation of the First shard, and the completion of the work your Minfilia began nearly a century ago.”

“A century ago?” Y’shtola repeats.

“Minfilia?” Urianger says, his eyes widening. 

“Do you promise not to harm me when I release you?”

They look at each other - a split second gaze that conveys more information than G’raha can attempt to parse - before their expressions change.

“Clothe us, then,” Y’shtola orders. “Bodiless though we may be, I do not appreciate this level of forwardness.”

“Bodiless?” G’raha says, his calm, knowing demeanor shifting to confusion. “These are your bodies, are they not?”

“You have summoned our _souls_ , and while our bodies languish in our own world the connection twixt one and the other will begin to weaken. If we are to aid you in this salvation it must needs be with haste, lest you lose us completely.”

Panic, guilt, and a frantic urge to deny the possibility surge through G’raha in a breath-stealing wave; his stomach drops and his face flushes as the repercussions of this mistake loom over him. How could he not have noticed? How could he have missed this? He has no idea what went wrong with this magic, or how to correct it for his next attempt; he similarly has no clue how to undo it. Feeling like an apprentice caught with a spell gone awry, he hunches his shoulders and clutches his staff close to his chest as he flounders through the sharp realization: he has overplayed his hand.

His silence is explanation enough: Y’shtola’s anger shifts to annoyed weariness. “You did not intend this,” she states hollowly. She closes those ghostly pale eyes, but her exasperation and disappointment are little easier to deal with than her fury. “I can only hope we are successful, mage, because you have gambled with expensive coin. Let us get on with it!”

With his ears flat under his hood and guilt writhing through his chest, G’raha can only hurry to acquiesce. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Biggest plot "hand wave" I've had to combat so far: how G'raha knew the WoL could hold all the Lightwardens' aether. Blessing of Light _mumblemumble_ rejoined soul _mumblemumble_ just BECAUSE, I guess?!


	39. Interlude: Liar, Liar, The Forest's on Fire

G’raha’s words hang in the air - his attempt to explain what he is doing and why, without revealing anything of himself or the danger to the Source - and he knows the Scions are not convinced. Urianger presses his knuckles against his forehead, seeming almost to knead the skin as he slowly shakes his head. Y’shtola moves first: she throws her hands in the air before flicking her fingers towards the Ocular doors. Magic flings the doors open as she approaches, and slams them shut again behind her.

“That could have gone better,” G’raha says quietly. It is near impossible to read the Elf’s face, so serene and calming as it appears, but his lack of temper has sparked the beginnings of an idea.

G’raha knows the Source’s history. He knows how Minfilia came to the First and who set the pieces in play. Though he has been loath to involve anyone else in this long and winding endeavor, he cannot expect the Scions - Y’shtola in particular - to focus on anything other than their return home. He needs something more tangible to convince them.

“Verily, I considereth thee lucky: had she a staff to hand thy scolding would have left thee bruised inside and out.” 

G’raha shudders. He is beginning to understand why Vahl had always deferred to the Mystel. “Well, thank goodness for that! I do not believe I have felt quite so shamed in decades.” He clears his throat as he looks towards his Umbilicus door. Urianger tilts his head, waiting, and G’raha knows his awkwardness and uncertainty are embarrassingly obvious. “Long have I studied the Source - the Scions of the Seventh Dawn in particular - and, if it would not be too much trouble, I would request an extra favour of you.” He lowers his voice. “You, and you alone.”

The smallest touch of pink colours the Elf’s cheeks. “If thou knowest my past…”

“I am aware of your skill in falsehoods,” G’raha says delicately. “Of traipsing through unknowns, and exploring where your companions cannot follow - indeed, of exploring where your companions do not even dare to consider.”

“Liketh I not the implication in thy words,” Urianger replies darkly. “To be known across worlds as a grandiose liar is not the impression I wouldst prefer to impart.”

“I think of you as someone who is willing to do whatever is necessary to ensure the survival of multiple shards.” G’raha tilts his head to one side, watching the delicate dots of pink blossom into a full blush. “Your actions saved this world: I would not wish to ever have you believe I think ill of you. You did what had to be done, and as a result thousands of lives were saved. You delayed an entire Calamity! Had I my way I would shout your name from the rooftops - were the Source and its shards common knowledge here, of course.”

The flush on Urianger’s face fades to an unusual shade of grey. “Delayed?”

“You began this fight through facades and fictions, and I ask that you delve into them once again out of necessity.” G’raha takes a step towards him, watching the Elf’s eyes flicker between his shadowed face and his Allagan staff. “Please help me save two worlds. I would not ask were there any alternative.”

Urianger covers his face with his hands. Guilt worms its way through G’raha’s stomach as he watches the Elf grapple with the accusations and responsibility already laid at his feet; it is not fair to ambush this stranger with such heavy knowledge, but he does not have time to tiptoe around it: what G’raha has in mind requires immediate action on Urianger’s part, and delaying it by any amount would only raise suspicions.

“Prithee -” Urianger starts, shakes his head, and tries again. “Wilt thou permit me to sit?”

“Of course.” G’raha moves to the Umbilicus door but pauses as he rests his fingers on the handle. No one has stepped beyond this doorway since he came to the First; no one has glimpsed the secrets he hides within this small chamber. It is a risk to allow anyone in - but it is a far greater risk to do nothing. “I feel it imperative to note I am trusting you even with this.”

The Elf does not smile, but follows G’raha inside without speaking. His gaze immediately falls onto the nearest books - the covers of which clearly signal they are native to the Source - and he stills. “What intricate web of falsehoods doth mine newest companion weave?” 

“A large and complicated one,” G’raha says quietly. He gestures to one of the chairs even as he stands near the large crystal sphere set in the far wall; butterflies flutter around his chest as he watches the Scion gingerly take a seat. The idea that he might finally pull back the curtain on this century-long act is both thrilling and terrifying - it is not that he _enjoys_ lying, but when his entire existence has depended on secrecy it is difficult to suddenly break away from what has become inexplicably comforting. “I ask only that you do not interrupt me - were I to drop the thread of events that led us here I doubt I would know where to recover it.”

Urianger nods as he crosses his legs and folds his hands on his lap.

G’raha opens his mouth - and there’s a sudden sadness, unexpected as it may be, because this is not _his_ victory they work towards; this is not _his_ mission. He was put on this path by the Ironworks, and it is the Ironworks who should be telling this tale. How can he ever do it justice? How can he ever do _them_ justice? There is not enough time to give every player the spotlight they deserve in this strange stage, to explain how every person was crucial to his coming to the First and standing where he is - but in the end he knows that is not the story Urianger is here to listen to. The story G’raha must tell starts - and ends - with Vahl.

Slowly G’raha begins to speak.

*

Watching Thancred and Y’shtola react to Urianger’s made-up-tale is an unnerving experience. The Elf delivers his “vision” with all the seriousness of an undertaker, and Thancred quite obviously takes his word at face value. Y’shtola, on the other hand, is suspicion personified: with narrowed eyes and twitching tail she grills Urianger for details, and when he admits he can tell her little more than what he has described - the deaths of every Scion and Vahl at the hands of the Empire - she falls silent. 

Though G’raha is worried by her temper, he is more relieved that the stakes are finally out there: twisted though the truth may be, now the Scions know the true price to be paid should they deem this cause secondary to their own survival. 

If the gods are on their side it will not come down to one or the other. 

*

“You’re leaving?”

Y’shtola arches an eyebrow. “Do not act as though you are my mother. I shall come and go as I please.”

“And where do you intend to go?”

“East.”

Flutters of panic bring about the strange urge to giggle. He stamps it down; squashes it completely; the Mystel in front of him is not one to take such a show of nerves lightly. “You mean to enter the Greatwood.”

“What I mean to do is my business, Exarch, and should I have need of you please believe that I will call for you.” Her tone suggests it unlikely she will ever find herself in such dire straits. “We are not going to solve our problems sitting in your Crystal Tower. Though Urianger may be content to share in your passion for research and theorizing, I prefer a more direct approach.”

G’raha finds himself responding as though she were the mother and he the impertinent child; he rubs at his wrist anxiously as his tail fights against the ties that bind it under his robes. “I apologize for overstepping. I would only ask -”

“That I never explain the Source, give no mention to the impending Calamity, always say that I am from the same land as you, and keep watch for Ascians?” She snorts and turns to leave the Ocular. “What do you take me for?”

Long after the door closes behind her G’raha still stands facing the exit, a frown twisting his mouth as he considers if that could have gone any worse.

A Hume whose focus is on anything but his own survival, an Elf coerced into acting two parts at once, and a Mystel who is frustratingly open about her disapproval and disappointment: never has he dealt with such a strange group of unlikely allies. Two of the three want nothing to do with him - and he understands, truthfully, the anger they must feel at being yanked away from their lives, their homes, their very bodies - but they must needs work past that! What they do will chart the course for two entire worlds! If they cannot maintain a semblance of good humour, is it too much to ask that they at least act worried about the coming apocalypse?

He lived it. Over and over he reminds himself: _he_ lived through the fallout, and they did not. _They_ have no idea what became of the Source after Black Rose was unleashed, and he cannot tell them! He cannot tell them how hard Cid and Nero worked; how quickly the city-states fell; how many died not to the poison but to the centuries of war and petty battles that followed.

He cannot tell them the true cost of impartiality.

So he must wait: Thancred is in Kholusia, working on his own business; Y’shtola heads east, to do gods-know-what with the people living in Fort Gohn; Urianger is at least content to stay in the Crystarium, but at the speed he is reading it will not be long before both the tower and the Crystarium’s libraries have nothing more to divulge, and what then? Will even the Elf go forth, leaving G’raha alone yet again to attempt to summon their Warrior of Light?

At least Y’shtola and Urianger knew more about the Blessing of Light. At least they could provide G’raha some small assurance that his half-hearted plan might work, though without a Lightwarden to provide an example Y’shtola is clearly hesitant to make any confirmations. Her worry - that the Blessing could not contain the Light from _every_ Warden - is not shared by Urianger; G’raha had sat out from their arguments, watching anxiously as they volleyed theories and historical cases back and forth. It had initially surprised him that they had been so involved in arguing the point, but eventually it had dawned on him that they are calculating the risk to Vahl. Whether they care for Norvrandt or not, whatever comes will put their Warrior of Light - their friend and colleague - at risk.

Whatever comes, they want it to work. 

*

“I like him, I just wish he didn’t speak in such a confusing tongue.” Travyrs watches G’raha from his overstuffed chair, blinking at him through thick spectacles as he makes his way around the Elf’s old kitchen. “You know where to find the sugar?”

“The same place it has always been, my friend.” G’raha says it with a smile as he pours steaming water into a chipped teapot, before grabbing cups and spoons and the much-needed sugar. He adds everything to a tray and begins the careful process of navigating the room. “How many years have I watched you do this?”

“Too many.” The Elf coughs, a dry, hacking cough that immediately makes G’raha move faster. “And yet you do not stoop, or waver, or slow down even an ilm.”

“Luck, perhaps.” It is much easier now to navigate the old Elf’s room: the books are boxed away; the scrolls are organized into folders; many of the shelves have finally been moved to new homes. The space is still extraordinarily full, but it is nothing like it once was. “Here - I even brought some of those caramels that once were so popular in Lakeland.”

“Back before Jobb was a fort!” Travyrs frowns. “Not that it’s much of a fort now, come to think of it.” He reaches for the tray even before G’raha settles it on the small table in front of him, grabbing two of the candies and popping them in his mouth. “Eck-hell-ent,” he says, struggling somewhat around the sticky caramel.

G’raha pours and prepares their two cups of chai before taking his own seat across from the Elf. His chair is not quite so well-stuffed, and the seat is stained by something ancient and forgotten, but he has sat here more than enough times to care. “When did Urianger visit you last?”

“Yesterday.” Having finally picked his teeth free of the cloying, sticky treat Travyrs grabs one of the mugs and wraps wrinkled hands around it. “He wanted to discuss Ronkan history - and who better in the Crystarium than I?” He wags a finger towards G’raha. “And what about that Mystel guest of yours, hmm? Ventured off into the Greatwood without once asking me a single question about the people under those boughs?”

“You haven’t been to Fort Gohn in almost ninety years.”

“But I still know the people! I know the customs! I keep apprised of the news, Exarch, as you should bloody well know.” He flaps a hand dismissively as he takes a sip of tea; G’raha only grins and waits for him to continue. “You should have sent her my direction.”

“You are three weeks too late with this advice. They aren’t likely to do harm to her, are they?”

“Harm? No! But their customs have become ever stranger since I departed.” He suddenly frowns. “I fear she will think them rather backwards, or - or - or simplistic, perhaps. To revere darkness without ever having seen it? To work for nothing so much as their own survival and eventual blissful end? We were once a proud civilization spanning the forest, bartering with Viis and other peoples alike, and now -”

“Do not judge them too harshly,” G’raha comments, running one crystal finger round the edge of his mug. “Voeburt fell, and Voeburt had an army and castle unlike anywhere but Eulmore. The people of the Greatwood have done a remarkable job, given their circumstances.”

The Elf’s face darkens at the mention of the Kholusian city, and even G’raha’s compliments towards his old home do not shift his mood. “Vauthry, that toad! That fool! That propped-up piece of drivel! His father was little better but this alliance with _eaters…_!” He slams his fist against the armrest; a small _poof_ of dust creates gentle, shimmering motes in the light from the open window. “Shameful! Generations died to those creatures - were _turned_ by those creatures - and Vauthry holds court with them! Foul, foul, foul!”

G’raha holds his tongue. Whatever he thinks of Eulmore and Vauthry is best left unsaid: though he agrees with Travyrs it would not do for the ruler of one city to besmirch the ruler of another - even if he is in private company.

“Is that gunbreaker of yours still set on storming the place?”

Turning his attention from one worrying topic to another, G’raha shrugs. “He is hardly _my_ gunbreaker - but yes, and the less I say on that topic the better. I am quite happy being oblivious, thank you.”

“Will you feel the same when you’re bartering him out of their gaols?”

“You underestimate our angry friend. If anyone can navigate that city unaided it would be him.”

Travyrs raises an eyebrow. “Navigate it, of course - but to steal their general’s prized captive is another matter entirely. What will the Crystarium’s council have to say should your guest bring Minfilia back here?”

“We shall cross that bridge when we come to it.” Hoping that will divert Travyrs’s uncomfortable line of questioning, G’raha gestures to the room around them. “I have been meaning to ask: what inspired the clean-up?”

The Elf stares into his mug, his forehead creasing as he considers his response. That he needs to take time to think over his words worries G’raha; what reason could he possibly have to hesitate? Finally Travyrs sets his mug on the table and folds his wrinkled hands on his lap. “Lyna gave me an ultimatum.”

“Lyna? My Lyna?” And she had not told _him_? 

“If you know any other white-eared Viis who stick their noses in others’ business, please do not introduce us.” The Elf flicks at dust on his trousers before making a face. “I fell. Tripped over a damn scroll. That nice Ronso who delivers my groceries found me the next morning, and he went and tattled to your damn Lyna.”

A stillness settles into G’raha’s chest. “Were you hurt?”

“Nothing your healers could not fix.”

“ _I_ am a healer - I am one of the best -” He cuts himself off. Knowing he is becoming riled, he sets his mug down on the table and rises to better pace between the shelves. “You fell and injured yourself. Lyna found out. What was this ultimatum?”

“That I clean out the damn room, or she’d cart me off to stay with the healers.”

G’raha stops and sighs, closing his eyes as he rubs his forehead with both hands. Of course Travyrs had chosen the former option: in the nine decades since the Pendants had been constructed, G’raha can count on one hand how many times his friend has left his room, and every attempt had required coaxing, bribery, and a great deal of reassurance. “There are private rooms near the healers’ quarters.”

“Don’t you start! This is why I told Lyna not to tell you!”

“Travyrs -”

“No! I did as she asked, and I’m staying in the bloody room!”

He turns to stare at his friend - his once tall, blond, handsome friend - and takes a moment to really and truly _look_ at him, at the dark spots along his hands and wrists, at the wispy white hair, at the wrinkles that carve deep grooves around his mouth and eyes. Elves are long-lived compared to every race but Viis, but long-lived does not mean immortal. 

“If any ounce of that expression is pity I will kick you to the Empty and back.”

G’raha sighs and returns to his chair. “I wish you’d told me sooner.”

“Wicked white - you want even more worries? Are those three guests not enough to be getting on with?” Travyrs grimaces. “I will be fine.”

“And?”

“And I’ll tell you sooner should it happen again.”

G’raha picks up his tea once again, but he finds he has quite lost the stomach for the caramels. 

*

The attack on Fort Gohn begins in the early hours of the day. Fort Jobb notices the smoke first, and by the time Lyna is able to marshall troops to investigate the grey plumes have turned into rolling black clouds.

“In joining thee I shall provide every ounce of aid possible,” Urianger says, wearing the dark robes and accessories of an astrologian. He joins Lyna’s troops on their hurried flight over the eastern mountains, and if G’raha feels any jealousy he bottles it deep. He watches them go before hurrying inside to follow their progress with his crystal mirror.

The fort itself is an inferno. G’raha is no stranger to fire but this blaze has set the very forest aflame. Sin eaters run and fly throughout the fort, pulling fleeing mortals into flames or dragging them into the air. What few combatants G’raha can find are weary, smudged black with soot and ash, and more focused on fleeing unhindered than saving their homes. The entire area is dark with rolling, clogging smoke; for once the aether-filled sky cannot penetrate this darkness. 

In the middle of it all, amid toppling trees and crumbling buildings and twitching white cocoons, are Y’shtola and Urianger. 

He barely recognizes the Mystel: she has discarded her borrowed white robes and donned an outfit more fitting of a member of the Night’s Blessed, with feathers in her hair and layers of black cloth. In her hands is not the conjury staff he’d gifted her but a gnarled, twisted thing of darker magicks. Her pale eyes reflect the flames all around her.

Urianger, meanwhile, is attempting to protect her and every survivor he can find from atop their high perch. Neither look perturbed or fearful, as though they have both done this - or something similar - many times before. This is business, unpleasant though it may be, and the duo show no hesitation.

Vahl had been like that. Never quite so cold as Y’shtola, but there were times when his sense of dedication surpassed even common sense. 

“Hypocrite,” G’raha murmurs to himself. “Did you not venture into the World of Darkness, too? You’d be right there beside them were the risks any lower.” Not to mention his ties to the tower - his reach does not stretch very far beyond Lakeland; he would be about as useful in Fort Gohn as he’d been in Ishgard. All he can do is watch, wait, and hope Vahl’s friends know what they’re doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: les affaires de misère mettant en vedette un chat et une elfe
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for being so patient as we approach 5.0!


	40. Interlude: And Then There Were Two

“Eulmore is pushing for Thancred’s capture.”

G’raha’s pen scratches across his paper; he takes a long, deep breath as he stares at the dark line of ink marring his words. “What did you tell them?”

Lyna crosses her arms. “That they have no jurisdiction here, of course. Besides, Thancred was last spotted in Amh Araeng - I’m not sending any of mine into the desert to search for him.”

“But you can be sure Ran’jit will deploy everything he has,” G’raha murmurs. He caps his pen and sits back, focusing his attention on the Viis. The Cabinet of Curiosities is a quiet place, but sound still bubbles around them: papers shuffling, pens scratching, and the low murmurs of voices over quiet footsteps on iron stairs. G’raha had claimed a table for himself on the ground floor; books and scrolls cover one side, while his own small journal sits open in front of him. “Will this create issues for you?”

“Nothing I cannot handle. I am more concerned for your friend.”

“Of all my guests Thancred is the most weathered,” G’raha says dismissively. “Also the most difficult to find.”

“Speaking from experience?”

G’raha arches an eyebrow - belatedly realizing she cannot see it under his hood - and shrugs. “He has his own goals. If I have trouble finding him with all the powers at _my_ disposal, at least I am able to find some comfort in the knowledge that Ran’jit will have less luck.”

Lyna’s expression is impossible to read. “And the girl?”

“ _What_ girl?” G’raha replies, his voice low. Seeing her snap to attention, he changes the subject. “I will hopefully have a new guest within a few days who will be more helpful than Mister Waters.”

She does not look pleased - but he would expect that. The three Scions have not proven easy to integrate into society; they have been altogether resistant to the entire idea, though Y’shtola has spent the past two years with the locales in Rak’tika. She, at least, seems to have found a group she can tolerate. 

Not that G’raha knows for sure, since she has refused to speak with him since Fort Gohn fell. 

“I hope they will benefit the Crystarium and Norvrandt,” Lyna says, her voice carefully neutral. “If that is all, my lord?”

G’raha smiles. “Unless you have the time to sit and speak of life, yes - that is all.”

Some of her professional demeanor slips as she gives him an exasperated look, but she salutes him and leaves the Cabinet without further comment.

Eulmore is searching for Thancred. Eulmore is searching for _Minfilia_ , in actuality, and the fact that Thancred rescued her has their attention focused on him. How he did it and where he’d taken her are mysteries G’raha still has not unraveled; the Scion and his young charge haven’t been seen in almost two years. That they might be in Amh Araeng is not surprising, though G’raha cannot be certain what Thancred hopes to achieve.

The Oracle of Light hasn’t been seen in nearly a century. Whatever he seeks will not be the woman he remembers.

“How deep doth thy train of thought run?” 

G’raha shifts to face the astrologian, who stands on the other side of his table. Rather than reply, G’raha twists his journal around to face Urianger and watches the man’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Ardbert?”

“I’m trying to learn what I can of him,” G’raha says, pulling his journal back towards himself. “How and why he became the reviled figure he was, especially when your history depicts him as someone working to save the world.”

“At any cost,” Urianger agrees. “Utterly committed - even unto death, as we so readily believed.”

“Yet he was a Warrior of Light, was he not? In service to Hydaelyn, rooting out darkness, and laying waste to Ascians and Ascian plots?” G’raha taps on the page. “I cannot help but believe something went wrong. If Light were to truly consume this world it would be a twin to the Thirteenth, and the Ascians seem opposed to such an ending. Perhaps Elidibus brought Ardbert and his companions to the Source not just to serve as a foil to Vahl, but to give them a chance to halt and repurpose the Light surging through the First.”

“Had they truly desired the end of the First, Elidibus would surely have left the Warriors of Light in Norvrandt,” Urianger murmurs, sliding into the seat across from G’raha. “To taketh Ardbert to the Source...thou wouldst imply the Flood of Light is a mistake?”

“Perhaps the Ascians are stretched thin after the loss of Lahabrea - or perhaps there are many Warriors of Light across the shards, and their attention was diverted from the First until the situation became what it is.” G’raha shrugs before moving into a long, wonderful stretch. He has sat for far too long, pondering puzzles that will not bring Vahl closer to him. “I would ask a favour of you.”

“Yet another?” The smile on the Elf’s face takes away any sting. “Speaketh thy desire and I shall endeavor to bring it to fruition.”

“Accompany me when I open the portal to the Source. Whether I snag Vahl or not, it would be much safer were my next guest to see a familiar face.”

Urianger’s smile melts away. He leans forward, his eyes sombre as he stares into the darkness beneath G’raha’s hood. “Thou meaneth to hide thine visage - to perpetrate this ruse even after Vahl’s arrival?”

“I am the Crystal Exarch,” G’raha says quietly. “To be anything else is to distract from the task at hand.” His hands want to fiddle with his journal and he lays them flat, staring at the crystal and gold that make up his right arm. “You know my end goal - my plan to do away with the Light. Vahl would only attempt to stop me were he to know the truth, and it is imperative he does nothing of the sort.”

“And when he asketh of thee upon seeing Syrcus Tower?”

“It is the _Crystal_ Tower here. Without any mention of Allagans I hope he will believe I simply teleported it here, or that it is some sort of Ascian relic on every shard. He has no reason to think of me.” His stomach flips even as he says the words: he _hopes_ Vahl will not think of him, but he knows what he would do were their positions reversed.

“I shall be present,” Urianger says after a few moments of tense silence. He pulls out his deck of cards and begins to set them up on the table, though G’raha cannot make sense of the layout. “Though I shall not be in the Crystarium much longer.”

Were G’raha’s ears not bound to his head they would have flattened completely. “Beg pardon?”

“I am to journey north. A friend hath invited me to accompany him through Il Mheg.”

“A friend.” G’raha purses his lips. What friend would Urianger have besides Thancred? But it is not his business, and he shall let the topic slide for now. “In that case I shall make my attempt tomorrow morning. With any luck Vahl will be here before noon.” His stomach bubbles at the thought, writhing with nerves and excitement and the fear that _yet again_ his grasping magical hand shall bring the wrong soul, though there is little he can do but try, try again. He gives the Elf a queasy smile. “If nothing else, my odds are higher.”

Urianger’s lips thin and his forehead furrows as he flips a card right-side-up. He nods once, though he is careful to keep the card facing away from G’raha. “Certainly.”

G’raha does not have the heart to ask.

*

“Third time’s a charm,” G’raha murmurs to himself. He stands in front of his crystal mirror, again peering into the vast depths of the star-spotted rift, and Urianger waits not far away. The Elf’s arms are full of robes - he had insisted on bringing extras, should G’raha’s errant magicks again pluck two souls instead of one - and though it is disheartening to witness such little faith in his powers G’raha cannot help but concede it is a wise decision.

With luck he will not drag every soul in the Rising Stones to Norvrandt.

Following the constellations he has come to know so well, G’raha navigates through the rift until he comes upon the Source. He wishes he could see more details - faces, rather than fragments - but through the hazy darkness he is at least able to determine the fiery, powerful souls he seeks are not in the Rising Stones.

“What are they doing in Ala Mhigo?” he murmurs, his worry spiking. If Vahl means to push forward across the Ghimlyt Dark - 

Panic forces his hand, and he sends his aether towards the two souls in the castle. At the last minute he senses a third soul - to the north - beyond the Burn, in Ilsabard itself! Leaving the duo behind, G’raha focuses on that wayward soul, reaching in desperation as he raises his staff -

“Eon become instant. Throw wide the gates!”

Again he is a conduit to an overwhelming burst of aether. Again the sound of an Allagan portal chimes behind him as another soul - a strong, bright soul - makes its journey across the rift. He twists desperately towards the room, watching as Urianger also steps forward in anticipation - 

Not Vahl. Not at all Vahl.

“No! Not when I am this close!” Ignoring the white-haired boy kneeling on the floor, he spins back to his mirror. Exhaustion weighs on him, and though the tower’s power is quickly draining he forces it to _again_ make the connection. “Not when he approaches death itself!” 

Time has shifted. The Source is moving much, much faster; the two souls are already gone from Ala Mhigo. Fear cuts through G’raha’s heart as he realizes where they are, and without hesitation he sends his power forth -

“Throw wide...the gates…!”

He hears the sound of a portal behind him just as the last of the tower’s aether snaps across the rift. A strange sound accompanies it - like ice snapping into place, or crystal cracking - and G’raha stumbles to his knees. Darkness clouds his vision as he attempts to turn his head, and he has the briefest glimpse of a second white-haired Elf before unconsciousness takes him.

*

Upper La Noscea, amidst the waterlogged ruins of Wanderer’s Palace. A cloudless sky, birds chirping, a gentle breeze offering some small comfort under the bright sun - 

Vahl with a fishing rod in his hands, his back to G’raha.

How long has it been since he dreamed of Vahl? How long has it been since he thought of this place - this calm, beautiful place? He cannot remember, but he knows he has had this dream before: many decades earlier, in a world long-lost to time, Vahl had fished still-beating hearts from this lake into G’raha’s nightmares.

“You’re getting desperate.”

Words fail him. He wants to drink in the sight of this Hume - this Hyur - but he is terrified that if he takes a step forward the entire vision will fade. From his shaggy black hair to his broad shoulders to his scar-crossed forearms, this is the Warrior of Light G’raha had fallen in love with. A yearning to wrap his arms around the memory has G’raha extending a hand - but he lets it drop the moment he sees the blue crystal instead of flesh.

Vahl cannot see him like this.

“I have failed so many times,” G’raha says quietly, clenching and unclenching his crystal fist. “As much as we need you - as much as _I_ need you - I am terrified, Vahl.”

“Terrified? Of me?” The Warrior clicks his tongue against his teeth as he reels in a catch and slips it into his pocket, too quick for G’raha to glimpse what the object might be. “That’s fair foolish, don’t you think? What’s the worst I could do?”

“Not you, Vahl. I’d never be terrified of you.”

“Remember what I told you?” Vahl flings his rod forward and the line drops into the smooth water with a quiet _plunk_. “About fear being temporary, but the actions we take lasting a lifetime?”

“That is what scares me most,” G’raha admits. “That I will see you - the real you, alive and well in front of me for the first time in decades - and my resolve will waver. That I will throw back my hood and throw away two worlds.” He scrunches his nose as emotions constrict his throat. “That, after all this time, I will allow myself to be selfish.”

“Raha.”

He cringes and closes his eyes. Tears cascade down his cheeks as he scrunches his face in a desperate attempt not to give in completely - and suddenly there are hands on his, pulling them out and palms-up, and as he opens his eyes in shock - 

Vahl empties his pockets into G’raha’s hands, a crooked, bittersweet grin curling one side of his face even as his bright blue eyes meet G’raha’s. “Do what you have to, and I’ll do the rest.”

“Vahl - !” The Warrior of Light vanishes and G’raha is left holding the day’s catches. Curling his fingers around the cold, jagged objects in his hands, he clutches the white auracite close against his chest. “Vahl…”

*

G’raha wakes on the floor of his Ocular. He lies on his side, knees bent and arms outstretched, and it is a small mercy that his hood still covers his eyes. Lyna hovers over him, her hand gently rocking his shoulder, and he sees Urianger past her with the two Elves he’d glimpsed earlier. Three Crystarium soldiers stand at the door, hands on their weapons as their gaze bounces between the strangers and their Exarch.

“How long?” he murmurs. The room spins with every movement; every muscle aches and his head throbs. Lying there for a few hours more would seem the smartest option, but he forces exhaustion back and drags himself into a seated position.

“My lord!” Lyna is as close to panic as he’s ever seen her. “Are you well? Should I send for the healers?”

“No, no - rest will solve what my own healing cannot.” Sensing something strange, he brushes the tips of his fingers along his cheek - and flinches at the unexpected chime of crystal against crystal. A punishment, perhaps, for forcing the tower beyond its capabilities? An acceleration of the process? Whatever the cause, crystal now reaches the base of his jaw and across one side of his face. Breathing heavily, his gaze settles on the two new Elves. Garbed in the too-large robes Urianger had thought to procure, the twins are quickly besieging the astrologian with question after question; the boy seems calm if confused, while the girl…

“In the middle of a war!” she exclaims, flinging her arms out to either side of her. Her comically-large sleeves flop through the air as she speaks. “With Varis sneering over our shoulders! I will not stand for it, Urianger - I will not!”

The boy taps her shoulder. “I do not believe there is any choice -”

She whacks away his hand as her eyes lock on G’raha. From his spot on the floor there is little he can do - but oh, does he wish he could scurry backwards as the furious Elf prowls towards his dais.

“You will come no closer!” Lyna blocks the small girl’s path, placing herself in front of G'raha in a display he _knows_ is not meant to embarrass him, and yet... “Guest though you may be, should you threaten my lord I shall see you tossed from my city without hesitation!”

“He brought us here against our will! He kidnapped us for unknown reasons! We are fighting a war and your lord risks _everything_ by bringing us here!”

“Lyna -” G’raha uses his staff as leverage to pull himself to his feet, shaking his head against the wooziness that threatens to sink him back into dreams and darkness. “Lyna, thank you. I shall handle this from here.”

“Respectfully -”

“ _Please_.” Another wave of dizziness has him gripping his staff as though it were a lifeline amidst a squall. “Thank you for your concern and care, but what comes next is too important to be delayed.”

She narrows her eyes, and for a moment G’raha worries she will not back down - but she salutes him before turning on her heel and escorting her fellow soldiers outside. As the door slams shut behind her G’raha winces; he owes her an apology and the best half-truths he can give her.

“Alisaie and Alphinaud?” he asks, turning his attention to the twins.

“He knows of us?” Alisaie twists back to Urianger, who watches G’raha with a look of great concern. “How?”

“I have been attempting to summon Vahl -”

“And you’ve been failing! For what purpose? Why would you drag us here - wherever _here_ may be? Are Y’shtola and Thancred stuck here, too?”

G’raha narrows his eyes as Alphinaud sighs. If he thought Y’shtola had been upset with her new situation Alisaie is another creature entirely. “Will you give me leave to speak?”

“I am sure he does not mean us harm,” the boy says tiredly. The adult-sized robes hang on his thin frame; the sleeves hide even his fingertips as he gestures back towards Urianger. “Please, Alisaie, at least allow the two of them a chance to explain.”

“The Warrior of Light’s life doth hang in the balance,” the astrologian says quietly. “Thine interests would be well-served in lending the Exarch thine ear.”

“Vahl?” Some of Alisaie’s fury dissipates even as her eyes widen. She backs away from G’raha and crosses her arms. “Go on, then - explain.”

Pushing aside his bone-deep weariness, aching disappointment, and waves of nausea, he recounts his tale yet again.

*

G’raha kneels in front of his crystal mirror. His Allagan staff rests across his knees and a mug of warm chai is close to hand, but his eyes are closed as he breathes slow and deep. Though most of the nausea has passed he is still careful to keep his movements slow and contained, lest he reawaken the sickly feeling in his stomach and head. He had managed a few hours of sleep before a growing sense of urgency forced him awake; he cannot be sure of the hour but he knows it presses ever closer towards daylight. The wise choice would have been to _try_ to sleep, to rest and recover for the inevitable adventure that will be the twins exploring this world, but the previous day’s events will not leave him. 

Vahl already stands at Ilsabard’s borders. The Calamity looms ever closer.

Drawing aether from his own, weary body, G’raha stretches his attention across the rift for the third time in less than a day. That last blinding soul is not difficult to find, even among other, weaker beings at the bounds of the Ghimlyt Dark, and he stretches a small amount of aether towards it - 

Blocked. Blocked and halted and left grasping at nothing - at _nothing_!

“The gates,” he gasps, unsure if he speaks with his body in the Ocular or with his mind through the rift. “ _Please_ \- why won’t they open?” He retreats momentarily, panting at the effort, and shakes his head. To give up now risks _everything_ : he cannot allow it. In desperation he rests his crystal hand against the mirror and makes one final attempt - one last, wavering try - “I beseech you -”

_There!_

It isn’t a portal - it isn’t quite what he’d wanted - but as he finds himself surrounded by darkness and pinprick-glimmers of light, with his elaborate flooring beneath his feet, Vahl Rime’s faintly-glowing form finally stands in front of him.

He is _furious_. Understandable, given the circumstances, but it is still a shock to see that expression on this hero’s handsome face.

G’raha speaks before Vahl can. 

“Please - please, you must listen to me. We do not have much time, and it is imperative I have your attention in this - this _place_ , wherever this may be.” He gestures to the darkness on all sides before pulling his focus back to this man, this soul he has searched for and called to for ages, this love long lost across time and space. “You _must not_ go to Garlemald. That path leads only to oblivion.”

“Oblivion?” Vahl snarls, taking a single step forward. One hand moves up, towards the hilt of the enormous sword strapped to his back, but he doesn’t unsheath it just yet. “Speak clearly!”

“I need you here - with me.”

“Who are you?!” 

A shiver ripples through G’raha as his power wavers - his focus strays from maintaining the link between worlds as Vahl’s question tears through him. Who is he? Who _is_ he?

A tool. A means to salvation. A lone, tired soul craving adventure and companions and a happy ending -

He shakes his head as his voice quavers, as he fights for a semblance of normalcy even as his heart urges him to throw back his hood. “We have precious little time. Such questions will have to wait - though I promise you, I _will_ answer every query.” He sees Vahl open his mouth and speaks over him. “You know of Syrcus Trench?”

“I do.” Vahl stands frozen, his hand resting on his hilt, and as dangerous as he looks there is still a part of G’raha that wants to reach across the distance…

“Go there. I have left something for you. You - you should recognize it, when you see it.” Again his aether weakens, and though he manages to keep his feet he knows it is not for long. “It is a - a beacon, of sorts.”

“A beacon to where?” 

“The First,” he gasps, and as Vahl’s eyes widen G’raha’s aether finally reaches its end. The blackness brightens to white even as he stretches out his hand, and G’raha opens his eyes to find himself sprawled once again on his Ocular floor. 

He has nothing left. Both his aether stores and the tower’s are completely tapped; he cannot attempt to bridge the gap. Exhaustion unlike any he has ever encountered weighs at him, drags at him, overpowers even the small shreds of joy and hope he’d managed to scrape together upon finally conversing with his one and only Warrior of Light, and without the strength to journey to his bed G’raha curls into a ball in front of his crystal mirror.

His dreams are plagued by black roses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 40 chapters in and they finally speak face-to-face!! I saw a tumblr post about a slowburn going 50 chapters before they even kiss and you know, I didn't _intend_ for that to happen, but at this pace...
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me through all these 'Interlude' chapters! This is the last one :)


	41. There's a Hell of a Good Universe Next Door

“Are we to cut off contact with our neighbours entirely?” Katliss, the Elf in charge of the Mean, asks. “After all this time?”

“ _We_ were not the ones to discontinue our airships,” Bragi retorts shortly. The Ronso sits with his arms crossed and his eyes closed, his face set in a deep scowl. “We have already been cut off. There is no point debating it.”

“Trade with the Mord continues?” G’raha asks, turning to the Galdjent at the far end of the table.

Cassard shrugs. “Aye, if you’re in the mood for grubs.”

Katliss isn’t the only member of the Crystarium’s council to make a face. G’raha himself is not eager to partake in this particular delicacy, but as the situation with their most powerful neighbour becomes more volatile he finds they are quickly running out of options. “I am willing to try anything once.” He turns to Katliss, who looks slightly green. “Any word from our culinarians and botanists? Our fishers?”

“We’re making progress,” she says. “Though I cannot be everywhere at once. Our fishers continue to argue with each other; our botanists are overworked. As our numbers increase we require more land or more opportunities to engage in trade.” Multiple members of the council slouch; the Elf has made this point numerous times in the past few weeks. “If the Mord cannot produce what we seek, perhaps the fae folk…?”

A gentle tingle of bell tones rings out across the small council chambers, and a moment later a bright orange pixie floats over the council table. G’raha closes his eyes and allows himself a small sigh as their uninvited guest rests their hands on their tiny hips.

“The fae folk won’t be bartering with you until you barter with us! Our king is still trapped in our castle, and have you lifted a finger? Have you sent a single soldier? No, no, no! You have sat in your crystal city and let us deal with unpleasantness on our own!”

“Feo Ul,” G’raha warns, but Lyna speaks over him.

“We have not sent any soldiers because your people turn them into shrubberies!”

“Only the rude ones!” The pixie flits to Lyna, whose large ears twist backwards as the miniscule fae creature darts around her head. “We would let the nice ones go to the castle - we would!”

“We are not in a place to save Titania,” G’raha says, speaking over both the pixie and the Viis. “I am not saying _not ever,_ mind you, but at this time we have no means of rescuing your king.”

“Rescue? I said naught of rescue! Kill the king if you must, so a better king takes their place! Kill, kill, kill!”

“That...was not what I had in mind.” G’raha flops back against his chair as the rest of the council begins to argue around him; Lyna and Katliss jump to their feet, arguing over each other as the pixie twists to make faces at each of them in turn; Cassard and Bragi attempt to return the conversation to trade, though both quickly begin their own argument when they realize neither wants to deal with the other’s suggested trade partner; Moren sits quietly with his arms wrapped around a book, a glazed look in his eyes as he attempts to follow multiple shouting matches simultaneously.

Most of the time the Crystarium’s council works perfectly.

 _Most_ of the time…

G’raha rubs his crystal hand against his forehead as the others bicker around him. In the year since the twins arrived he has not made a single attempt to cross the rift; having drained both his reserves and the tower’s it has been a worryingly long process to allow the power to build up yet again. At this rate it will be another year before he can safely reach for Vahl - another year in which the Warrior of Light might disregard his warnings and proceed north to Garlemald. Another year in which the Calamity moves ever closer.

Another year of stalled time for the First.

Norvrandt is no better than when G’raha first arrived; parts of the world are decidedly worse. The Viis are constantly losing their fight to hold the forest; most of the mines in Amh Araeng have been abandoned; Eulmore long ago became a city for hedonists and megalomaniacs. Lakeland perseveres only because of the network G’raha spent a century forging, but he cannot be everywhere at once. Eater attacks occur daily, and anyone brave - or stubborn - enough to live beyond the Crystal Tower’s boundaries is in constant threat of battle. 

Amidst all of this G’raha is stuck playing politics. It isn’t that he begrudges this responsibility or wishes it upon anyone else, but when the fate of the world hangs in the balance he finds it near impossible to dedicate his full attention to the process. Trade for his city matters, yes, but it does not matter nearly so much as the Light that continues to overwhelm them. The Scions are doing what they can, but without the Warrior of Light their efforts cannot guarantee salvation.

“Exarch?”

G’raha shakes himself to the present, looking around the table at the many staring faces. “I apologize. I fear my train of thought drifted.”

“I proposed delaying this until we are able to speak more thoroughly with the traders in Mord Souq,” Bragi says. “Other business awaits, and we are making little headway here.”

“Ah.” G’raha pointedly avoids Lyna’s focused gaze. “Of course. That does sound preferable.”

“Then let us adjourn for today.” Cassard rises even as he speaks, pushing back his chair to make for the door with a quick wave over his shoulder. “Best I get to work!”

The rest of the council slowly filters out of the meeting room until Lyna, Feo Ul, and G’raha are all that remain. Lyna’s business seems too private to mention before the pixie; she gives G’raha a look he has no difficulty interpreting before departing to her post in Lakeland. They will discuss her business later, whatever it may be.

“Your Elf is still keeping us entertained,” Feo Ul says happily. Together they exit the meeting room and move into the Crystal Tower’s foyer; the orange pixie contrasts sharply - though not unpleasantly - with the blue glow radiating from the walls and nearby staircase. “Do you want him back?”

G’raha snorts. “What I want is inconsequential compared to Urianger’s desires. If he continues to find his abode easier to work from, I wish him the best of luck.” He tilts his head. “You aren’t distracting him too much, I hope?”

“Me? Me, me, me? Never!” The pixie twirls up and around. “We have some fun, but we let him work! One day he will save Titania!” They shrug. “Or kill Titania. Either way!”

“Either way,” G’raha agrees, allowing his thoughts to drift to Lightwardens and Light aether and the immensity of the danger ahead of them. “And I will do my best to help -”

Hands - a connection - something - somewhere - voices? Voices he recognizes; one voice he doesn’t; the strange sensation that he is held within someone’s calloused fingers - 

“Hey, hey, hey! Exarch? Exarch, are you ill?” 

G’raha can hardly find the words to answer. He is in the tower, but he is also somewhere else - he is _something_ else - and the disjointed realities pull and tug at his focus no matter what he tries. “I - I don’t -” He grasps his head in his hands and closes his eyes, focusing on the alien sensation even as the pixie begins to tug at his sleeve. It is as though he has sprouted a third arm, as though some phantom limb suddenly became able to hear and feel and touch, and he cannot hope to parse every new awareness.

He focuses on the voices, muddled and slow as they are, and though it has been centuries since he heard them last he can still remember them wishing him luck - 

Biggs and Wedge, and - and -

It’s the beacon - the beacon in Syrcus Trench!

“I have to go,” he gasps, flinging his attention back to the present and the pixie pulling at his robes. “I’m sorry, but I have to go!” He dashes up the stairs, desperately running towards his Ocular as the fear that the touch - the strange sensation of being held in someone’s palm - will dissipate. The doors slam open before he reaches him and he storms inside, falling to his knees even as he flicks a finger to turn the lock behind him. Disregarding his body on the First, he focuses on his connection to the beacon he had attuned to nearly a century earlier - the beacon the Ironworks had tossed into the Trench around his tower in Vahl’s time.

It is held in Vahl’s bare hands.

“Now I have you,” G’raha murmurs, pulling power from Syrcus Tower even as he forges a connection twixt the Source and the First. This feels _different_ from his previous attempts through the mirror. Though he is rendered blind he has no doubt as to who holds the beacon, nor does he hesitate to reach: it is simple as teleporting around his tower; simple as moving to an aetheryte; simple as grabbing Vahl’s hand and giving him a tug - 

“Let expanse contract,” he says as power surges through the rift towards the beacon and the hand holding it. “Eon become instant…”

There is no time for worry or dread or excitement. There is no time to reconsider or even to doubt: _this_ is what G’raha has been working towards. _This_ is the moment; _this_ is the time; this requires his utter commitment and focus. Even as the connection solidifies and he senses Vahl, he hears a high-pitched voice echoing as though through a great tunnel - 

“Safe journey, Warrior of Light!”

G’raha feels tears on his cheeks as he draws the power back to him in a rush, as he pulls at the soul captured within, as he summons his hero and his hope across the interdimensional rift -

“Throw wide the gates that we may pass!”

Darkness. Stars. Stars beyond the stars; an endless expanse of bright pinpricks stretching as far as he can see. How long has it been since he saw the night sky? How long has he waited for the chance? Chest heaving, palms sweating, tears rolling off his chin, G’raha Tia stands alone as a shooting star makes its journey across the canvas of night. Hope flares in his chest and he takes a step forward - 

The darkness vanishes. G’raha opens his eyes to his Ocular.

He is on hands and knees; his staff is just out of reach. He shifts back to sit on his heels, eyes darting around the room for any glimpse of a portal.

He is alone.

It had to work. Hadn’t it? 

_Hadn’t it?_

Panic flutters around G’raha’s chest as he rises, stumbling over the hem of his robes in his urgency, and he staggers up his dais to the crystal mirror within the wall. He’s panting, his breath haggard as he orients the mirror towards the main plaza in the Crystarium. People pass by on their normal business; guards stand at their posts without a care; life seems to proceed as usual for as far as his gaze can see.

Vahl has to be _somewhere_! All those years - all that effort - and if the beacon didn’t work -

If he is lost in the rift - 

If G’raha has failed _now_ \- 

Growing more panicked with every breath, he spirals his viewing screen through various parts of the Crystarium. The Cabinet of Curiousity, the aetheryte plaza, the Wandering Stairs: nothing is different. Nothing has changed. There is no sign of the Hume G’raha needs to see. Moaning with a horrible mixture of despair and desperation, he sends his seeking gaze beyond the city’s borders, past the Exarch Gate into Lakeland proper. 

Nothing at the Gate.

Nothing at Fort Jobb.

Nothing in Sullen.

Drawing his focus back towards the city, he suddenly spies Lyna running towards the Accensor Gate. He hesitates, his desperation momentarily waylaid by worry should she face off against any eaters, and in that second he sees him: striding beneath purple boughs and bleached-white skies comes the dark, lonely figure of Vahl Rime.

“ _Gods_.” He presses his nose against the mirror, staring open-mouthed at the dark-haired, heavily-armoured Hume. “Oh, gods.” Both palms land flat against the mirror’s surface as he watches Vahl and Lyna begin to speak. “I’ve - I’ve done it.” A giggle escapes him - a giggle that quickly becomes a sob, and he finds himself backing away from the mirror as he wipes at his eyes with his sleeve. “Derrik and Biggs, look! Look at what we did! Cid - Nero - if you could only see…!”

The conversation between the two in his mirror does not appear to be going well. G’raha snaps up his staff as he dims the mirror and takes a few steps back. “Foolish,” he murmurs. “Just go - just go say hello. Just - just say hi. Just be the Exarch.”

Just wear the mask. Act the part. Play this through to completion.

Pushing aside the nerves and worry bubbling in his chest, G’raha teleports from his tower to just outside the Crystarium. He slightly underestimates his mark, arriving several yalms back from the Accensor Gate, and immediately breaks into a run.

This isn’t how he pictured this moment. As he comes around a bend and glimpses Lyna disposing of a lone eater, G’raha realizes this is as far from what he hoped would happen as could possibly be. To arrive winded, with tears on his cheeks outside the city itself - to arrive after Vahl has already been in danger - to deal with both Vahl and Lyna at once - 

There is nothing else for it. However he wished for this to play out, this is the hand he has been dealt.

“Captain Lyna!” he shouts, hoping to call her attention towards him before she can raise her weapons towards Vahl. “All is well?”

If she is confused by his presence she gives no sign, holstering her chakrams as she claps dust off her gloves. “No problem at all, my lord. A single stray.” Her gaze slides to Vahl, who is frowning hard at G’raha’s cloaked form. “Today seems to be the day for strange strays, come to think of it.”

“Ah, you’ve already met my guest,” G’raha says, forcing confidence into his voice even as his lungs constrict as those eyes - those beautiful, deep blue eyes - turn to him. His knees are jelly and he is soon to soak his robes through with sweat, but he forces himself to keep up this charade. “Provided you have no objections, I shall take him into my care.”

Lyna’s face falls. “ _Another_ guest?” She doesn’t quite scoff, but her disappointment with his previous company is obvious. “Of course, my lord.” Lyna turns to Vahl and salutes him. “My apologies for my words earlier. Welcome to the Crystarium, stranger.” 

“Thank you,” Vahl says, and even those two, simple words set G’raha’s heart thrumming. He waits until Lyna returns to her post before taking a few careful steps towards this wonderful Warrior of Light - this solution, this weapon, this man he adores.

A century of waiting! A century of hoping! And here - _alive_...!

Pressing his delight and glee and every other bubbling emotion far below the surface, G’raha quietly says, “I expect you have questions. I will do my best to provide answers, but not here. Privacy is paramount.”

“Lead on, then.” Vahl gestures up the path even as his curious gaze strays from G’raha to the massive form of the Crystal Tower in the distance. A frown wrinkles his forehead and G’raha can practically see the questions building up within his tense frame, but they manage to walk in silence past the Accensor Gate and onwards. 

He steals glimpses at this wondrous Hume as they walk. His armour is simple, though the enormous sword strapped to his back seems to be inlaid with runes and strange carvings. His raven hair is shaggier than what G’raha remembers; the beginnings of bearded scruff hides most of his tanned chin and cheeks. He looks older, yes, but - more serious, somehow. The youthful joy that G’raha has for so long idolized is gone, replaced by something harder - something more dangerous. 

Though G’raha’s initial reaction is a sense of loss for the man he knew, he cannot help but be intrigued by this mature version of the Warrior who’d stolen his heart. How much remains? Were they to meet now, for the very first time, would G’raha’s reaction be the same? Or do rose-tinted lenses blur what G’raha perceives, shifting reality into something far brighter than it is?

When they are well beyond the Accensor Gate Vahl finally speaks. “I take it this is the First shard?”

“Indeed, though the people know it as Norvrandt.” It is small talk, yes, but it is _safe_ small talk: focusing on simple facts keeps G'raha from bursting into song, or skipping like a gleeful child; so long as Vahl asks simple questions it saves G'raha from rambling nonsense out of nervous energy.

“Norvrandt.” He says it slowly, as though testing the word on his tongue. “And this - this place I find myself in - what is this known as?”

“Lakeland. It corresponds to the Mor Dhona you are familiar with.”

Vahl slows to do a full circle, tilting his head back to stare up at the purple leaves high above them - and the Light-filled sky beyond that. “I’ve had some time to piece together things since you mentioned the First. We thought we’d saved it when Minfilia took herself across the rift, but - evidently not?”

“The First is not like the Thirteenth, if that’s what you mean, but it isn’t all like this. Your Minfilia saved Norvrandt, and Norvrandt alone: nothing is left of the rest of the shard.”

Vahl stops looking at the scenery to stare at G’raha. “Nothing…?”

“Imagine if, beyond the bounds of Eorzea, the rest of the world was little more than dust.” G’raha slows down as they approach the Exarch Gate; this is not a conversation he wants the guards to hear. “That is what the First contains: a small land ringed by barren wastes. We are doing everything we can to save what remains.”

“ _We_ ,” Vahl repeats. “Does that include my friends?”

“Ah, yes.” G’raha mentally kicks himself for not mentioning them earlier - how better to build trust than to assure him the Scions are alive and well? “They have been aiding me in a number of ventures, though none of them are in Lakeland at the moment. Their work takes them elsewhere, at least for the time being.” Turning his back to the Gate ahead, he lowers his voice. “I am sorry to have called both you and them here. My intention was you, and you alone, yet I am still a student when it comes to mastering the tower’s magicks. If I could return them to the Source I would - I would! But -”

The Warrior of Light waves a hand dismissively. “It might be selfish of me, but knowing they’re here makes this entire endeavor a little less daunting.” He tilts his head as he narrows his eyes. “Can’t say I’m fond of you not asking ahead of time, though. We would have helped, had you explained your cause.”

It is the most gentle of scoldings he's ever heard, yet it still manages to douse G'raha with shame. “I did not believe you would be inclined to leave - not with Garlemald breathing down your neck.”

Vahl shrugs. “Duty has taken me on stranger paths.” He looks up again at the distant tower. “Or - maybe not.” He frowns as he stares at that impossibly large spire; G’raha fears what might come next - what lie he might be forced to tell - but Vahl avoids the question he dreads most. “Why me?”

Relief makes G’raha smile. “Would you mind a small history lesson?”

“Why are mages so damnably predictable?” Vahl mutters, but there is a hint of resigned humour in his eyes as he waves a hand. “Regale me.”

Resuming their trek forward, G’raha attempts to compress a century worth of events into a few dozen yalms of slow-paced walking. The Flood of Light; Minfilia’s arrival; the fight against sin eaters and Lightwardens and that damnably effective Light aether - by the time they cross the bridge into the Crystarium he has provided Vahl with a brief account of this world and the problem as it stands. They stop just before the Rotunda; G’raha has no difficulty discerning that Vahl’s focus has begun to stray from history to the city around him.

He doesn’t mind, of course: he wants to sing; he wants to jump and cry; he wants to turn around and plant a kiss on this hero’s perfect lips! Only through intense self-control does he continue to hold his stoic, respectable demeanor, but the longer they are together the more difficult it is to contain himself.

 _Look at this,_ he wants to say. _Look at what I helped build. Are you proud? Do you like it?_

_Look at how far I have come._

“My private chambers are just through here,” G’raha says, gesturing to the Rotunda and the slowly rotating aetheryte within. “There we can carry on our discussion - unless you would rather take a moment to explore the Crystarium proper?”

“I - I would have no objection, truly.” Vahl’s eyes are on the dark-feathered amaro. “Someone once told me ‘seeing is believing’ and I think, in this situation, I might find it easier to process were I to witness the world as it is.”

In truth G’raha finds himself relieved at this opportunity: even if it is a short break, he will have a chance to collect himself, to retain his dignified distance and reiterate - as many times as must needs be reiterated - the importance of maintaining his role. “Then I suggest you speak with the members of the Crystarium’s council. It would be good for them to meet you, for a start, and they will be able to answer many of your questions.” He pauses a moment, remembering himself before he sends Vahl wandering. “As to _their_ questions...pray do not tell them of the Source. Merely mention that you and I share a homeland, and you should find their curiosity stilled, if not sated.”

“I understand,” Vahl says quietly. “Though that presents more questions about _you_ , now that you’ve mentioned it.”

G’raha finds himself grinning. Of course Vahl would narrow onto his own personal mystery, but now is not the time or place. “I shall meet you in the courtyard beyond - unless you have further need of me before your small adventure begins?”

The Hume’s gaze again strays to the distant Crystal Tower, just visible beyond the spinning aetheryte. “My questions can wait.”

“Excellent.” Butterflies twist in G’raha’s chest as he takes a step back; he suddenly finds he does not want to leave. “I shall see you shortly.” Though his face is covered, there is a moment where Vahl’s eyes seem to pierce the darkness of his hood - a moment of connection where G’raha hesitates, losing himself in the blue eyes he’s dreamed of for so, so long - and then Vahl looks elsewhere, back to the amaro, and the moment is gone.

G’raha bows and walks away without another word, his entire body seeming to vibrate as he passes into the Rotunda.

Vahl is here; _Vahl is here!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onwards and upwards, through ShB!


	42. Little Lies and Doleful Dissimulations

While Vahl explores the Crystarium G’raha settles himself on the tower’s outer staircase. Nervous energy has him tapping his hands against his thighs, shifting his shoulders, and even bouncing his knees - he is a child awaiting a gift, a puppy expecting a treat; he is a bundle of energy too bubbly to be contained. 

After all these years, Vahl is here! After clinging to hope for so, so long, G’raha has finally done it!

There is almost too much to process: satisfaction, elation, triumph, and a warm tingling in his fingertips shift him towards childish bounciness even as he attempts to remind himself they are not in the clear quite yet. They have Lightwardens to find and a Blessing of Light to test: Vahl’s arrival does not mean automatic victory, but _gods_ , does it ever turn G’raha’s gloom right around!

He hadn’t expected to react quite like he did. He’s happy he kept his head - remembered the plan, and kept himself apart, and even conversed without sounding a fool - but he cannot help feeling somewhat starstruck. Vahl had been a relatively unknown hero when they first met; the city-states had only just begun to rely on him for primals and other business, but most delegations went through the Scions or the Crystal Braves. Now - after reading the legends of the Warrior of Light, the battles fought across multiple countries and the ties forged both at home and abroad - Vahl no longer seems the young, budding adventurer G’raha fell in love with. He is history come to life! A legend from fairy tales walked right off the page! Vahl is so much _more_ than he’d been when they first met, and G’raha…

Pausing at his near-constant tapping, G’raha looks at his open palms. One flesh; one crystal: he is used to this view. He has adjusted to the cost of his power and longevity; has grown accustomed to the strange turn of events that have led him here - yet that makes it no less remarkable! He has travelled through time to master magicks unknown to any other! He has spoken with Ascians, survived captivity, fought in wars across countries and shards, and lived far longer than any of his race could dream of living! He is the Exarch of a city he helped build on a shard he was not even born on!

Vahl is not the only one who has changed. 

It is a dizzying perspective. Equals? No - surely not. Not then, and not now! G’raha’s power comes from the tower - from magicks borrowed and invented and forced into being. Vahl’s power is -

G’raha frowns. Part of Vahl’s power is his own, yes, but a Warrior of Light acts with the blessing of their Mother: how much is bestowed upon him by Hydaelyn? What would he be if he had not been gifted with both Blessing and Echo?

He'd have been _something_ powerful - _someone_ who still had pull in this strange world of theirs. Vahl was never destined to obscurity.

Whatever the case the facts remain: Vahl is here, and G’raha cannot remove his hood. The charade must continue whether they stand as equals or not.

G’raha rises as he sees Vahl storm towards him from the direction of the markets. Even if he has some trouble believing it, considering himself Vahl’s equal makes facing him somewhat easier - _especially_ when he sees the determination on that handsome face.

“The Crystal Exarch,” Vahl says, and his feet carry him past G’raha and up the steps of the tower. “And the Crystal Tower. What is it doing here?”

What an unpleasant bubble of nerves! G’raha hurries to keep up, fumbling somewhat in his reply as he navigates the series of lies he'd constructed to explain the tower. “I summoned it here. It was a test, back in my early days, to see what could be transported across the rift.”

Vahl comes to a halt in front of the enormous double doors. His fists open and close as he tilts his head back, staring up at the bright blue forms of the two figures inlaid on each golden door. “It’s locked?”

“No. I live in it.”

Vahl spins around, wild hope brightening those beautiful eyes. “Truly? And when you opened it, did you - did you find anyone? A Miqo’te - a red-haired, red-eyed Miqo’te?”

G’raha’s face pales and then flushes as his stomach gives a sickly lurch. He does not want to answer this, as he does not want to crush that blossoming hope - that expression that strums across his heart as surely as if Vahl had reached inside his chest and plucked the strings himself - but he cannot give Vahl the answer he desperately wants. 

He lies, because to do anything else would doom them. 

“A red-hued Miqo’te? No, I’m afraid not - I found no one inside, alive or dead. Perhaps I teleported the tower from a time prior to this friend of yours being within?”

The crushing defeat on the Warrior’s face is so obvious - so straight from his very core - that G’raha has to look away. He presses his lips together as he gazes up at those glowing blue figures - a sight he belatedly realizes is the same view that would have taunted Vahl after the tower doors locked. 

“He was more than a friend,” Vahl murmurs behind him, and G’raha’s heart is destroyed and rebuilt in an instant. “I - I had hoped - but…perhaps, when all this is said and done, you might enlighten me as to how you opened these damn doors? You would not believe the magicks I have tried.”

G’raha closes his eyes. The mental image of Vahl flinging spell after spell in that long, dim tunnel tears right through his already-aching heart - and something new awakens in him as he realizes what Vahl means to do. 

G’raha’s younger self still slumbers, locked in stasis in the tower on the Source. If Vahl were to learn how to open the doors and then return home…

Jealousy is as unexpected as it is unwanted, but oh, does it twist in his belly! To go through all of this only for Vahl to awaken his younger, oblivious self…!

“It was open when it arrived,” he says, locking his heart in steel even as he flicks a finger. A rumble answers his gentle pulse of aether and the doors slowly begin to slide open. “But, should time allow, I will do my best to discover what mechanism serves as its lock.”

“I would be in your debt.”

Vahl has been here for less than a day and already G’raha has told a lie and made a promise he has no intention of keeping! Feeling his glee quickly become squashed beneath mounds of misery, G’raha leads the Warrior of Light within the tower he has long called home. He tries not to notice Vahl’s hands gliding over the stairway bannister, or his expression as they pass locations he no doubt recalls from their time with NOAH, but it is difficult not to view Syrcus Tower through Vahl’s eyes.

He does not want to imagine the maelstrom of emotions working their way through this hero’s heart.

Vahl is wordless as they enter the Ocular. Turning to look him in the eyes is as uncomfortable as G’raha expects it to be: both of them are thinking distant thoughts, of past lives and choices made, and G’raha is finding it difficult to recall the satisfaction he’d felt minutes earlier.

“Welcome to my Ocular,” he says, gesturing around the crystal blue room. Desperately he strives for normalcy - whatever _normal_ may mean in this bizarre situation he has constructed. “I trust you found your journey through the city informative?”

“Informative and impressive.” Vahl crosses his arms; metal shrieks against metal as his vambraces slide against his breastplate. “Left me with almost as many questions as I have answers, mind you, but it’s a beautiful city.” His expression shifts. “So: sin eaters, rampant Light aether, a collection of Lightwardens, and myself right in the middle. You explained well-enough why you need someone to fight this battle, but why _me_ in particular?”

“There are no Warriors of Light left on this shard,” G’raha says. “Ardbert and his companions are gone, and without the Blessing of Light we do not stand a chance against the Wardens. It had to be you.”

“And I suppose when my friends realized they had been summoned in error, they were doubtless eager to aid the cause?” Vahl’s arched eyebrow speaks volumes. “How many threatened you?”

“Three of them,” G’raha replies dryly. “I will leave it to you to guess which three.”

For the first time since arriving the Warrior of Light grins. “Unnecessary. What my friends may lack in subtlety they make up for in predictability.” He snorts and loses the grin. “What did you say to convince them to help? As altruistic as they are, you pulled them away in the middle of what has become a very personal war.”

“Urianger takes all the credit for that: it seems that, in crossing the rift twixt your world and mine, he was gifted with a vision of the future.”

Vahl narrows his eyes. “Why does this kind of thing always happen to him?”

“He witnessed what will come to pass should our efforts on the First fail,” G’raha continues, trying not to let himself be rattled. Had his choice of informant been _too_ obvious? “A Calamity will annihilate this world and wreck untold destruction upon your home - though you will not be alive to see it.” All humour drains from the Hume’s face, but G’raha forges on. It is better to say it all at once - to rip the bindings off the wound quickly, rather than drag out the process - even if it pains both of them. “You know of the poison called Black Rose?”

“I do.”

“You, and all the Scions, die to it.”

Vahl uncrosses his arms to run his bare hands through his hair. “Shit. Damn and blast. That’s -” He stops. “ _Every_ Scion?”

“Even Tataru and Krile.”

“ _Garlemald_ ,” Vahl snarls. “Alright. You have my attention. What would you have me do?”

“Before anything else we require the Scions returned to the Crystarium.” G’raha pulls a scroll out of a back pocket and offers it; Vahl takes the rolled paper without hesitation. "This is a map of what remains of Norvrandt. I have marked the locations of four errant Scions, though I must note that Il Mheg and Rak’tika are not easily traversed. Magic, eaters, and a lack of maintained roads renders passage to both locations difficult. Not impossible, of course, but difficult.”

“Then these two…?” Vahl rests his fingers against the two blue dots near the lower end of the map. “Were we on the Source I’d call them La Noscea and Thanalan, but I suppose they have different names here.” He narrows his eyes at the faded ink on the scroll. “Kholusia and Amh Araeng?”

“Indeed. Specifically, a city named Eulmore, and an establishment known as the Inn at Journey’s Head. The young twins can be found there: Alphinaud in the former, and Alisaie in the latter. I can provide you with a mount to reach either location when you are ready to depart.”

“Four locations for four Scions,” Vahl murmurs. “And the fifth?”

“Thancred. A notoriously slippery companion, and not one who feels the need to keep me apprised of his movements.”

Vahl snorts and rolls the map up before slipping it into a pocket. “It is somewhat reassuring to know some things never change. I suppose it is more likely _he_ will find _me_ \- he usually does.” He claps his hands together. “About that mount?”

“We’ll worry about that in the morning,” G’raha says, dialing back the forward momentum out of necessity. “Though it looks like midday, I fear it is closely approaching midnight. You would find few to aid you at this hour, unfortunately.”

“Oh.” Vahl suddenly looks around himself. “Is there a - a bed, I suppose? Something I might borrow?”

G’raha allows himself a moment’s fantasy wherein Vahl sleeps in Syrcus Tower, but a fantasy is all it can be. “We have an inn within the Crystarium - there is no need for you to set aside your privacy during your time on the First. I’ll lead you there, if you don’t mind?”

“Wait.”

G’raha stops in mid-step, freezing as Vahl comes closer. It isn’t quite fear that sets his heart pounding, but his anxiety at the Warrior’s closeness puts him on high alert: like prey caught without cover, he awaits his moment to bolt.

“It would be hypocritical of me to ask you to remove your hood,” Vahl says quietly, his bright eyes roaming over G’raha’s head. “Some of my closest friends were mysteries for much of our early time together - but some of my enemies also kept themselves masked. I trust you will remain one of the former?”

It is a small miracle that G’raha’s voice doesn’t shake. “I promise you this: your survival is paramount. Whatever happens, I am on your side.”

Vahl looks surprisingly bitter as he backs away. “With any luck you will not come to regret those words. My allies seem to fall just as easily as my enemies.” He jerks his head toward the door. “Shall we?”

Filing away his worry and his questions, G’raha leads him back out to the Crystarium.

*

After giving Vahl a short tour of the markets - and introducing him to Feo Ul, who G’raha had sensed lingering within the courtyard ever since his abrupt departure earlier that day - G’raha sets him up in a room in the Pendants. It isn’t until Vahl is standing across the threshold that G’raha realizes this was not a good idea.

He wants to go inside.

He wants to spend every waking moment with Vahl.

He wants - 

“Today has been - unexpected, to say the least.” Vahl rubs the back of his head with one hand, looking awkward and adorable and five years younger. “I can’t imagine it’s been any easier for you.”

“Ah.” G’raha cannot even begin to categorize the day’s events. “Well. I’m glad you’re here.” He cringes mentally at how awkward and forced it sounds even as the words leave him, and rushes to try again. “Because of the Light. And the Wardens. And the Ascians out there - somewhere…” A tiny voice in the back of his mind is ordering him to stop talking, but to stop talking means walking away, and walking away means leaving this face, this soul, this Warrior he’d mourned for nearly a century. “Give some thought to where you’d prefer to venture next, and I’ll take care of all the arrangements in the morning. If there is anything you need or any questions that arise I am available at any time.”

“I appreciate that.” The Warrior takes a step back, resting one hand on the wooden doorframe. “Thank you, Exarch. Sleep well.” He gives a quick two-finger salute before gently closing the door.

Silence. A dim, lonely hallway to either side and a large, wood-and-iron door in front of him. G’raha is alone, his ears hidden and his tail bound and his heart - his heart...

One life for millions - it should be easy! It should be obvious! It should be a sacrifice G’raha is honoured to make!

But if he could just have one last chance - one minute unmasked - 

One moment alone with Vahl to finally voice the apology he’s been owed for almost a hundred years -

Knowing temptation will lead him down a path from which there is no return, G’raha forces himself to turn away from the dark wooden door. He makes his way up to the deserted third floor; late as it is, Travyrs is never one to sleep early, and his door opens on G’raha’s second knock.

“Well! Isn’t this - are you _crying_? Wicked white, man, come in, come in!”

G’raha staggers past the Elf, waving him off even as he moves to collapse into his long-favoured chair. Keeping his hood up, G’raha frantically wipes at his cheeks. “I’m sorry - I’m sorry, I know the hour is late, but -”

“'But' nothing! I’m glad you came! I’ll make us some chai - or perhaps something a little stronger?”

“No, no - you really needn’t worry -”

Again the Elf interrupts him. “Do you take me for a fool? Chai or wine?”

G’raha stares at his tear-covered hands - one flesh and one crystal. What does it matter what he drinks when his love is alive? What does it matter what he does now that Vahl is finally on the First? What does _anything_ matter when G’raha cannot take off his damned hood? His destiny is pre-determined; his fate set in stone: whatever life Vahl will return to on the Source will not include G'raha. To reveal himself now will force them both into a final farewell.

He cannot do that to Vahl. Not again.

“That silence says wine.” He can hear the Elf puttering around the kitchen, moving bottles and mugs and rummaging through the icebox. “Is this the type of cry that you want to talk about, or the type of cry you’d rather simply have company for?”

“I - I don’t -” G’raha blinks as a green bottle is shoved into his hands, and blinks again as the old Elf drops into the chair across from him. How he would love to unload all of his worries, to give voice to the multitude of concerns and thoughts milling around his head - but he cannot take the risk. “There is nothing I can say -”

“Then you shall have my company.” Travyrs picks up a book off the shelf beside his chair and settles in to read. “Cry, or think, or stare out the window - whatever you need, for as long as you need, and if you change your mind that’s perfectly fine, too.”

“I -” G’raha looks at the bottle. He looks at his friend, who is already reading, and then back to the bottle. He hesitantly takes a swig, cringing reflexively at the bitter taste, but it quickly becomes clear Travyrs is sticking to his word: until G’raha decides otherwise, he can do as he pleases in silent company. “Might I borrow paper and a quill?”

Wordlessly the Elf reaches into the desk at his elbow, pulling free a few sheets of yellowed, blank paper, an old quill, and an inkwell. G’raha takes them all and settles back into his chair, organizing the writing tools on the armrest as he frowns down at the vast emptiness of a paper waiting for words.

Tucking his ankles underneath him and cradling the bottle in his lap, G’raha begins to write his final apology.

*

“Look at these creatures!” Vahl’s interest and delight in the amaro is obvious: he walks circles around his mount, inspecting the saddle and harness with the practiced hands of one who has done so many times before. “With so many wings! I don’t imagine they walk with much dignity, but in the air…!”

The amaro destined to carry him to Kholusia shakes her head, almost as though she’s admonishing him, and G’raha can’t help smiling. Though he had not slept well, witnessing Vahl’s excited, ready-for-adventure attitude is more than enough motivation for him to power through his exhaustion.

Somehow he’d forgotten Vahl was always a morning person.

“I’m glad you approve,” G’raha says. “I would have offered you a chocobo if you found these too strange -”

The Hume grins. “You would not believe the creatures I’ve ridden. This might be the most normal thing between my legs in months.” He keeps inspecting the harness, thankfully unaware of G’raha’s flustered blush, before asking, “I imagine they swim, too?”

“They do,” G’raha murmurs, dragging his mind from _riding_ and _between Vahl’s legs_ to this relatively mundane task of wishing the Warrior well on his adventure. Vahl swings a leg over his mount and settles in his saddle, seeming immediately at home perched on top of the feathered beast. “You may tire of hearing me say it, but I _am_ sorry you are needed here. It is not fair to force all of our worries upon you -”

“Exarch.” Vahl’s interruption is forceful but not unkind. “I’ll hear no more of that. Though the manner of my arrival may have been abrupt, I am genuinely happy to be here.”

“As am I,” G’raha says - too quietly. Too intimately. He forces himself to smile. “I wish you much luck, in any case!”

Vahl gives him a Gridanian salute and G’raha has to stop himself from responding in kind. Within moments the Warrior is airborne, soaring up and away with a smile visible even from the Amaro Launch, and G’raha watches him grow smaller and smaller until he vanishes into the wide pearlescent sky.

Somehow - in all his planning and plotting and preparing - G’raha had never given any thought to what he would actually _do_ once Vahl arrived in Norvrandt. He knew he’d assist, of course, but it hadn’t occurred to him that Vahl would need to travel to the far reaches of Norvrandt, further than G’raha can safely move from his tower.

Somehow G’raha never considered that he would be left behind.

While there is a moment of regret, it is quickly overcome by a collection of memories: back when he was on the Source - when he was twenty-something years old and renting a tiny apartment in Gridania; rolling over on a hard mattress as Vahl slid out of bed; watching him dress and depart for whatever business he had with foreign dignitaries or primals or beastmen -

It is somewhat comforting to remember that he has watched Vahl leave many times before.

Forcing himself away from hazy memories and an aching heart, G’raha turns his attention to the running of his Crystarium, confident at least that he will be present to welcome his hero home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing schedule is gonna get funky for the next few weeks while my life is consumed by work (c'est la vie when 1/4 of your team is ordered to quarantine), so I apologize in advance for some slow updates! Hopefully I’ll be back to normal by mid-December.
> 
> Take care out there!


	43. Prelude to Darkness

Alphinaud returns first.

“I stopped him from punching Vauthry.” The boy looks exhausted and morose, though G’raha can’t help but notice he’s somehow gained new attire. “He’s gone on to find my sister. _I’m_ going to have a nap.”

“Punching...Vauthry…?” G’raha remains in front of the Crystal Tower as Alphinaud continues in the direction of the Pendants. He cannot imagine what might have led to such an encounter - perhaps he does not _want_ to imagine - but he is grateful Alphinaud held Vahl back. Whatever Vauthry might be, and however twisted his city may have become, assaulting the man in charge of the largest military in Norvrandt would be a horrible start to Vahl’s time on this shard. 

As badly as G’raha wants to chase after Alphinaud and sate his curiosity, he stays where he is. He’d wanted Vahl to gain an understanding of this world - a sense of empathy, a sense of compassion, a sense of protectiveness just as G’raha had - but Eulmore is, perhaps, not the place one goes to evoke such emotions. 

He hopes Amh Araeng will be kinder.

*

G’raha comes across Cassard in the markets the next day. The Galdjent has boxes of wares with him as he moves from stall to stall, but he pauses in his proceedings when he notices G’raha waiting for him. 

“Hope the day’s treating you kindly!” Cassard says loudly, dropping his stack of boxes to the ground so he can give a well-intentioned attempt at a soldier’s salute. “I got your boy set up with Tesleen, once our business was done. She’ll see him on to the Inn.”

G’raha’s breath catches hearing Vahl referred to as “his boy”, but he powers through that strange and unexpected reaction. “I’m in your debt. Truly, if there is anything I can give -"

Cassard laughs. “Honestly, ser, he helped me out in more ways than one.” The man’s eyes twinkle as he winks. “I made some _very_ beneficial trades today. Amazing how forgiving people are when they’re distracted, eh? Not meaning anything malicious by it, of course, but your boy put on quite a show! Eating grubs and frogs and what-not, and running about town with the most novel questions I’ve ever heard! The Mord can’t wait until he returns!”

“Well!” G’raha’s worry drains away; perhaps Eulmore _will_ be the lowest point of this journey. “Did he seem to - er - _enjoy_ the food?”

“Wicked white, no! But he kept it down, and that’s impressive enough!”

“I am sorry I missed it,” G’raha says, and he does his best not to show the depth of his desire to be out there, seeing the world as Vahl sees it. “But it’s a relief to know he’s finding a welcoming crowd.”

“Of course, ser. I’ll head back to meet him and the Elf lass tomorrow morning.”

Someone clears their throat nearby; both G’raha and Cassard shift sideways to find Lyna scowling with her arms crossed. Cassard, recognizing her ire is not with him, grabs his boxes and hurriedly resumes his rounds.

“Captain,” G’raha says, his voice unusually high. He attempts to smile. “Good morning.”

She does not smile back. “I would have words with you, my lord.” 

“Of course.” He gestures towards the Wandering Stairs. “Let us find somewhere to sit.”

Though it approaches noon there are still plenty of tables left to choose from. G’raha picks one near the railing overlooking the markets below and takes a seat, watching the Viis slowly take the stool across from him. Her expression is closed; her gaze unreadable.

“Six strangers you have brought to this city,” she says, clasping her gloved hand atop the wooden table. “Six times you have asked me to accept them as allies. I have done so without demanding answers, and I am not about to start.” Her lilac eyes shift to his shadowed face. “Promise me you will be careful - whatever comes.”

G’raha looks down. Guilt curls through his chest - and it grows no easier knowing he cannot tell her that which she wants to hear. “I have done you a disservice,” he says quietly. “You, having shown me nothing but trust, should not be left in the dark.” He raises his head. “I apologize, Captain. I wish I could tell you more, but you have my assurances that I continue to treasure the life I have. My goal remains the same, and I am determined to stay alive to see it through to completion.” 

Rather than looking relieved, Lyna seems to grow more serious. She leans forward, resting her weight on her forearms as she searches the recesses of his hood for something he cannot discern. “And your friends? Do they share this goal?”

“It is why they came to Norvrandt.”

“And after? When all is said and done?”

“I imagine they will return home.” Whether that is the truth or wishful thinking he does not know, but he hopes - he hopes! - that will be the case.

“Will you join them?”

This, at least, he can answer somewhat honestly, though it hurts him to say it. “I do not believe so. Their world is mine no longer, and -” He shifts his gaze towards the courtyard with the base of Syrcus Tower. “My home is here, is it not?” 

Will the tower vanish with his death? Should it survive his own ending the people of Norvrandt will inevitably come to open it; to learn of Allag; to discover G’raha’s own journals and records. What will come of them with such advanced technology? What will they do upon learning they are a shattered piece of a whole?

He suddenly finds himself hoping the tower will disappear when he does, but without such assurances...

“You have my key, do you not?”

Lyna’s hand moves to her chest. “Of course, my lord.”

Though she deserves to know the truth, now is not the time to tell it. “My newest guest - the dark-haired Hume? Should all my efforts be for naught - should I fall ill, or some other misfortune come my way - give him your key. He will know what to do.” 

Her long ears swivel backwards. “Will he?”

With G’raha’s journals and Urianger’s slim understanding he would _hope_ Vahl would be able to figure out what must be done - but even then it would require reformulating his entire solution to this problem. If he is not present to steal the Light, how can they possibly hope to save both the First and Vahl? It is a complicated possibility he does not want to dwell on, but the fact remains that it _is_ a possibility he must account for. “I certainly hope so, but if all goes as planned it will not come to that.” He manages a stronger smile. “I do not intend to leave Lakeland, and I believe I am well-protected here - thanks, in no small part, to the skill and dedication of the Crystarium’s talented Captain of the Guard.”

She flushes. “Ser -”

 _Now_ his smile is genuine. The older she becomes the less she likes his flattery - but he has cared for her for too long not to give her every compliment he can. “Do you have time for an early lunch? It has been far too long since we last had a meal together.”

“Not since Travyrs asked you to stop bringing him Rak’tikan delicacies,” she murmurs, but there is a glint of humour in her eyes. She hesitates, clearly considering the day’s work and her waiting assignments, but eventually her shoulders relax and she finally smiles. “I can make time.”

*

G’raha spends much of the next morning wandering between the Amaro Launch and his crystal mirror. Cassard had left bright and early, just as he’d said he would, but as the hours begin to stretch and morning becomes afternoon G’raha’s worry spikes. It is not that long a flight from Amh Araeng to Lakeland! Even taking into account their journey north from the Inn, there is no reason for them to be quite so late!

“He’s eating grubs again,” G’raha tells himself, watching the horizon through his mirror. “Or collecting bounties. He might even be mining! Finishing odd jobs, or talking to merchants -”

Jealousy is almost as potent as the worry. To be out there with Vahl, running through deserts and slaying simple creatures; meeting the locals and seeing the world beyond his tower; adventuring for the sake of adventuring -

What he wanted most as a youth had been to see the world, yet while he has traveled to a new shard he has never left the region he arrived in. Ninety-four years spent entirely in Lakeland - _ninety-four years_! Knowing there are forests to the east, flowers to the north, sand to the south! Knowing there is a world out there beyond anything he could have imagined!

And now Vahl has a chance to see it, while G’raha remains in his tower.

He hadn’t dreamed of this type of pain. He assumed the hardest part of this plan would be maintaining his deception while continuing to guide Vahl through his journey, but he had overlooked his own desire for adventure. Somehow the pull had remained dormant with the Scions - perhaps because G’raha’s attention remained focused on summoning Vahl - but now that the Warrior of Light is here, doing what he does best, and G’raha is regulated to a simple bystander - 

It isn’t fair. 

Childish, simplistic logic. _Life_ isn’t fair! Had he not woken on the other side of a Calamity? Had he not witnessed how far his wondrous, beautiful world could fall? Had he not watched his friends die for him and his cause? Nalza and W’cheruh hadn’t given their lives so G’raha could be _comfortable_ , so that G’raha could _explore_ , so that G’raha could live out his youthful fantasies and adventure alongside Vahl! Their sacrifices must mean _something_!

In the midst of this internal battle who should fly across G’raha’s crystal mirror but the very same subject of his fight against temptation! G’raha rests his forehead against the smooth crystal surface as he watches Vahl’s amaro land at the Launch slightly ahead of Cassard and Alisaie; watches the creature shake dust and dirt out of its feathers even as Vahl does the same with his hair; watches him turn back to his companions - 

Watches Alisaie wipe away tear tracks on her sand-smudged cheeks.

G’raha steps back. Life isn’t fair for him, or Vahl, or anyone caught up in the Ascians’ machinations - but he will continue to fight, as they all do, because to pretend otherwise is no better than giving up.

Giving one last look to the red-eyed girl, G’raha dispels the scene on his mirror and turns towards his door.

*

Vahl is easy to find. Whether through intuition - or his own history with the man - G’raha makes directly for the Wandering Stairs after leaving his tower. There are few patrons mid-afternoon; it is even emptier than it had been during his lunch with Lyna the day before, making Vahl’s heavily-armoured presence all the more noticeable at his table against the far wall. G’raha waves to the barkeep but doesn’t stop to greet him; he is not sure his feet will continue if he stops now.

Even from this distance the look on Vahl’s face worries him.

“I am glad to see you’ve returned,” G’raha says, catching Vahl’s bright eyes from a few fulms away. “Might I join you?”

The Hume jerks his chin towards the seat across from him. G’raha takes it silently, watching Vahl as anxiety curdles his stomach. The man is hunched over his drink, both hands cradling the clay mug as he closes his eyes. Sand dusts his hair and cheeks; his armour is covered with it.

“Alisaie went to clean up,” Vahl says quietly. He takes a sip, makes a face, and takes a larger swig. “I’ll do the same once I’m done here, and then I suppose you want us all to meet?”

“If it is not an inconvenience,” G’raha says, just as softly. What is this? Who is this morose, cold man sitting in front of him? What had _happened_ in the south? “Is she well?”

Vahl frowns into his mug. “She will be.”

G’raha lowers his voice. “Are _you_ well?”

“Gods only know.” The Warrior stretches his neck from side-to-side; G’raha can hear the cracks from across the table. Something about Vahl’s presence shifts - so subtly G’raha doubts he’d have noticed if he hadn’t been paying close attention - and the exhausted, melancholy Warrior _changes_ into someone far sharper. He sits up straighter as the light in his eyes brightens, as his expression softens and he takes a deep breath - and when he exhales he is the same Vahl he’d been on his first day in Norvrandt. G’raha cannot say if the tired man was the mask or this one is - and he’s unsettled for not-knowing. “I assume Alphinaud filled you in on the mess that Eulmore turned out to be. Amh Araeng promised to be the highlight of my trip - until sin eaters paid us a visit, at least. I wish you’d mentioned the cocoons before I left.”

G’raha winces. Gods, gods, gods. “I apologize. Mayhap I was too optimistic - but I should have told you. I - I don’t imagine it would have been easy to witness.”

Vahl shifts his now-empty mug to the middle of the table, allowing it to wobble between his fingers as he attempts to balance it on its bottom rim. “I have watched friends and enemies alike shift into different beings, taken over with and without permission. This was a far sight worse, all things considered.” His attempt fails and the mug clatters against the table, rolling in circles as the last droplets of ale splatter to the surface. “Well. Which Scion is next?”

“You are still determined to help us?”

The Warrior’s tired smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s what I do, isn’t it?” He shrugs and stands, watching with dismay as clouds of sand and dirt drift from his armour to the floor. “I’ll bathe first, and then I suppose the twins and I will meet you in the tower.”

G’raha reaches without thinking, almost grabbing the Warrior’s arm as he begins to walk away. He stops himself before they touch, recoiling with embarrassment and frustration, but Vahl notices his awkward movement and stops with a raised eyebrow.

“I was not asking simply to be polite,” G’raha says quietly. “Are you well?”

Surprise flickers across Vahl’s face. This time his smile is familiar - not quite bashful, but somehow reminiscent of his younger self. “I am resourceful, Exarch. Don’t worry about me.” He turns to leave, but hesitates before murmuring over his shoulder, “Thank you for asking.”

G’raha remains where he is long after Vahl’s steady footsteps recede.

He should have realized he wouldn’t be the only one with secrets.

*

The twins arrive in his Ocular before Vahl does. Alisaie is deep in thought, but her brother is ever the picture of protocol.

“I hope you’ve been keeping well, Exarch?” Alphinaud bridges the silence first. “As I understood it you had not expected to summon Vahl for another year. Pray tell me you did not risk injury to yourself to bring him here early.”

“I had an unlikely back-up plan in the works,” G’raha admits, touched by the Elf’s concern. The boy _had_ watched him collapse the last time he attempted this magic. “It was a surprising success.”

Alphinaud smiles. “And a relief as well! While the Warrior and I are in no way bound at the hip, we have travelled and worked together for quite some time - I must admit this year without him has been very strange.”

“Indeed?” Commander of the Crystal Braves; the excursions north with heretics in Ishgard; the mess with the traitor in Ul’dah - strange, distant fragments of memories flit and flutter through G’raha’s consciousness. It has been a long, long time since he thought of Vahl’s other business while they were investigating the Crystal Tower - but that _other business_ had involved none other than this young Elf. Curiosity is a powerful motivator, even if he cannot find a delicate way to word his multitude of queries. He settles for something he hopes will come across as innocent. “Would either of you happen to know what a dark knight _is_ , exactly?”

The twins exchange uncomfortable looks; Alphinaud again speaks for them. “You would do better asking Vahl. Even in Ishgard the tradition has largely fallen out of favour -”

A hurried knock interrupts him; the doors are flung wide before G’raha can respond, and Lyna suddenly strides across the Ocular floor. Vahl follows at her heels, a strange, bright look in his eyes - like a hunting cat ready to pounce - and they both stop at the foot of G’raha’s dais.

“My lord! Holminster Switch is under attack.” 

“Eaters?” G’raha snaps to attention, all thoughts of dark knights and secretive Warriors driven from his mind; he feels his tail attempt to twitch free of its bindings. “A Warden?”

“Yes, ser. I intend to lead a team -”

He holds up his crystal hand and she immediately falls silent. He thought he’d have more time. He thought the rest of the Scions would be here - that Urianger and Y’shtola could aid him with their skills and knowledge - but he will not allow this opportunity to pass them by. To have come this far only to allow a Warden to slip from their grasp due to his own _nerves…_

No. His Warrior is here. He will not delay.

His attention shifts to the Hume, who slowly grins.

“I volunteer,” Vahl says. “Lead on, Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, and much gratitude for your patience! Slow updates will continue for the next three weeks, unfortunately, but after that I'm back to my normal schedule!


	44. Holminster Switch

G’raha’s hands are shaking. He tightens his hold on the amaro’s reins and hunches lower against its back. From here the sky to the north is a mess of black smoke curling eastward, drifting towards the range of low mountains and craggy hills that cut Lakeland and the Greatwood in two; below him Elves and Humes flee south towards the Crystarium. Lyna flies ahead of him, her face unreadable as she brings her amaro in for the descent.The Viis doesn’t want him to be there - had done her damned best to keep him in the Crystarium after the others left - but for the first time he’d put his foot down. This, he’d told her, is why he is in Norvrandt.

Ninety-four years of waiting explains some of the shakes that ripple through his fingers; anxiety explains much more. His last confrontation against a Lightwarden had been a nightmare, and though they had pushed back the swarm it had still been the most disastrous battle in Lakeland’s post-Flood history. To face this one now, with only himself, Vahl, Lyna, and two teenage mages seems incredibly foolhardy, and yet - if Vahl can conquer Titan, Ifrit, Garuda, and others - if Vahl can face _Ascians_ \- 

G’raha has hope. He has such an abundance of hope! Every day for the past century he has been nurtured and spurred on by hope, and now they approach the moment where everything finally comes to a head. Either Vahl will destroy the Lightwarden and absorb its essence, or G’raha is about to witness the end of everything he has worked for.

He cannot allow himself to doubt. He _cannot_. Vahl _will_ live; Vahl _will_ succeed. Anything less is unacceptable.

He follows Lyna down to where the Scions are already waiting. From the ground they can hear and see very little of Holminster Switch or the towers of black smoke beyond the gate: had they not been informed of the swarm on the other side of the village gates it would seem much like any other, uneventful day.

“It’s set quite a ways back,” Lyna says as they dismount their amaro. “We have a bit of a trek ahead of us.”

“What kind of land?” Vahl stands in front of the open gates with his hands on his hips and a frown on his face. The twins are nearby: Alisaie already has her blade drawn, tapping it against her open palm as she watches, and Alphinaud listens intently with his shimmering carbuncle at his feet.

“Forest. Farmland. Rolling hills.” It has been quite some time since G’raha visited the north of Lakeland, but what he remembers was beautiful. Imagining what the eaters have done to it is not a pleasant exercise. “Are we ready?”

Vahl suddenly draws his sword; the blade sings with energy even as its runes flare red. Purple aether shimmers along its edges, brightening the space around them as Vahl heaves his weapon up to rest its length along the back of his shoulders and neck. He turns around and begins walking backwards through the gate; one side of his face twists in a cocky grin. “Think you can keep up?”

Too shocked by the tease to reply, G’raha stands still as the others rush to follow.

Vahl had said something similar in Mor Dhona, the first night they…

Burying his thoughts and his heart and that sudden unexpected memory, G’raha plunges through the gates.

*

It is so much worse than he imagined. White cocoons cover the forest floor; white webs with thick strands dangle from boughs overhead; smoke creates a haze through much of the once-beautiful forest. Orange flames flicker to the north, throwing the bases of distant trees into stark contrast against the dark underbrush, and through it all the everpresent Light filters through the canopy. 

They are very far away. He can only hope they will reach the town in time.

With Vahl present to take the heavy hits and Alisaie capable of handling the darker magicks, G’raha has left his aether attuned to white magic. He understands Alphinaud is capable of his own healing, but he is taking no chances: all of this means nothing if he loses Vahl to something along the way.

It’s hard to keep his eyes off the Warrior. With that massive sword in hand and his body low to the ground, Vahl takes off at a sprint the moment they pass under the dark boughs. A path leads him onwards, so G’raha is not worried about becoming lost, but as a giant white bear rises ahead of them - and Vahl leaps to it without hesitation - he finds himself torn between fascination and fear.

Vahl is astounding - powering through every attack without concern, dodging sharp claws and pointed teeth even as he carves into the creature. Aether swirls about him in shapes and forms G’raha does not recognize, and it is difficult to keep his focus on his own spells as he attempts to analyze what, exactly, his hero has become.

A dark knight…

Purple and black aether. Where has he seen purple and black aether? It is familiar, tugging at his memory even as he concentrates on keeping his companions alive, but he does not have the time to think it through.

Later. After the Warden is slain and they are triumphant.

After he risks the most precious life on this star.

Just as they approach the forest’s end an enormous winged eater descends in front of them, blocking their path to the fiery fields beyond. It wields a shield on one arm and a sword in the other hand; its face is impassive as it floats above them.

“That eater…” Alisaie mutters, drawing her weapon as they advance. The colour has drained from her face, though she doesn’t slow down as they move into range.

“I see it,” Vahl replies, and suddenly leaps forward without warning. “Don’t do anything stupid!” 

“You’re one to talk!” Alisaie retorts angrily, springing into battle after him.

“Children,” Alphinaud mutters as he, too, moves to engage the creature.

Lyna spares G’raha a single, bewildered look before drawing her chakrams. He can only imagine what might be going through her head - the wonder and confusion at the seeming ease with which these strangers march into battle, paired with what is no doubt the worry that perhaps these Scions might not be entirely sane. G’raha had witnessed a small taste of this eagerness in the World of Darkness, and another when Thancred accompanied him against the Lightwarden five years earlier, but this is his first time truly being a part of one of Vahl’s escapades.

For being new to the world of eaters, Vahl learns remarkably fast.

By the time the large one is dead, its chest run through by Alisaie’s thin rapier, G’raha is convinced Vahl is more than capable of handling the Warden at the end of this venture. What healing aether G’raha had needed to expend had been due to large spells or unfortunate missteps by other members of their group; Vahl had been entirely focused, seeming almost to predict the movements of the eater before they’d even begun moving. G’raha assumes it is a result of the Echo, but this is definitely _not_ the time to ask.

Coming over a rise reveals the full scope of devastation ahead of them. Bales of hay dot a network of fields intermittently, but for every beige bale are two or more pale cocoons. Eaters rove through the countryside while the road is littered with the bodies of townsfolk. Holminster Switch itself is a blazing inferno on the next hill, a mass of bright flames flickering underneath a black bank of smoke. Though their focus is the town G’raha cannot help diverting his attention for just a few moments.

“Look to the eaters!” G’raha shouts as he runs to the nearest fallen body. “I will do what I can for these!”

Not that there is much he can do for the majority: many are stiff and cold, already beyond any powers he controls, but some few he can stabilize and send back towards the Crystarium. It is a senseless, frustrating, unexplainable loss of life - why here? Why now? What had these people done to make it so, so far only to end their fight on this unpredictable day? 

If they had only retreated earlier…!

By the time G’raha catches up to the group they are nearly at the town entrance, but another large eater blocks their path. Alisiae is grey-faced as Vahl faces her; he rests his hands on her shoulders as he murmurs urgent, quiet words.

“What has happened?” G’raha asks Alphinaud.

The boy nods grimly to the eater ahead of them: another winged creature, this one’s eyes leak dark tears. “I believe you knew Tesleen?”

“Oh.” G’raha’s heart sinks; he doesn’t need to know anymore to understand why Amh Araeng had been as difficult as it was, or why they have come to a halt. He wishes there was something he could say - but Vahl speaks first.

“She’d want you to do this,” he tells Alisaie. “She’d understand how hard it is, and how you wish it could be otherwise, but allowing her to live will only enable her aether to be suffused entirely.” He points behind him towards the creature, who seems resigned to wait with dark liquid coursing down its corpse-like cheeks. “She is here to die, Alisaie. Why else would she come before us but to be put out of her misery?”

“Don’t - don’t say it like that.” Alisaie brushes his arm off of her and shifts past him, readying her weapon even as her own tears dampen her face. “ _Tesleen_ wanted to live.” She stops a few fulms beyond him. “Are we doing this?”

Vahl’s shifts, twirling on his heel to stand beside her. “On your count.”

G’raha can barely hear the girl’s shuddery inhale, followed by her quiet, “Five - four - three - t-two -”

Vahl jumps forward, his blade slicing through the air even as dark aether surrounds him. Whispering a small prayer of apology, G’raha quickly moves to engage the eater with the rest.

*

The fighting is worse as they move within the town. Cocoons burst open all around them and they are suddenly surrounded by flying creatures, wolf-life monsters, and enormous white manticores. As Vahl hunkers down G’raha raises his staff above his head; he twists in mid-air, releasing an explosion of white aether that locks every eater in place. Again and again and again - G’raha can barely see for the clouds of aether around him, but he senses Vahl nearby, and the twins, and Lyna at a distance, and it isn’t long before every eater is dispatched.

Chest heaving, G’raha rests against his staff as he looks up the hill towards the manor house. Holminster Switch’s mayor had lived there - but, judging by the flames rising beyond the trees, the mayor would be lucky to be living at all.

“Come on,” he gasps. “The Warden will be ahead.”

What if this doesn’t work? What if Vahl turns into a Warden himself? What if the biggest gamble turns into the biggest loss?

At least G’raha will die quickly. Should he be near Vahl-as-Warden he assumes the creature will lash out at whatever is within its reach: G’raha will not have to live with his disappointment for long.

Coming around the bend and up the hill reveals the scorched, blazing manor house, but G’raha barely spares it a glance. He stares instead at the many-limbed creature that blocks their path: the Lightwarden of Lakeland. Though chains still bind its wrists, there is little else about it that harkens back to its previous life: rage and aether have distorted it into a creature of nightmares.

Lyna suddenly throws her arm against G’raha’s chest, pushing him back. “I permitted you this far, my lord, but I cannot in good conscience allow you to confront a Lightwarden. Not with so few gathered around us.”

“Unfortunately - and apologetically - I cannot abide by your excellent advice.” G’raha strides past her and the twins until he stands beside Vahl. Both face the Lightwarden, watching its hideous purple tongue twirl and twist over its bare, mottled chest, and G’raha is suddenly back - back a hundred years - back an entire shard - standing atop Syrcus Tower with the Ironworks and NOAH and Vahl, facing down a portal to an entirely different world - 

From a world suffused with Darkness to a world awash with Light - 

G’raha shifts to look at Vahl, who is watching him expectantly. “We shall do this together.”

“Happy to have you,” Vahl says as he rests his sword over his shoulder. “Anything I should know?”

“Watch out for the chains?” G’raha suggests. He cannot help grinning - what fear and worry he might have felt are gone, completely obliterated as he stands beside his Warrior once more, and it is a giddy joy that motivates him to draw his staff and twirl it to one side. Yes, there is danger, and yes, he must be mad to feel this way with the risks so incredibly high - 

But he never thought he’d have the chance to do this again. 

“Right.” Vahl grins back at him. A ball of dark aether manifests in his open hand and he gives G’raha a quick wink. “Let’s finish this.” Without hesitation Vahl leaps forward, lobbing the ball of energy up and away - 

It hits the Warden square in the chest as it screeches - a sound that is somehow high and low simultaneously - and before G’raha can blink Vahl is moving within the creature’s reach. He ducks beneath the flurry of arms and runs past it, dragging its attention - and its long, lumbering body - away from the mages and Lyna.

“This is madness!” The Captain is not impressed by Vahl’s antics but, rather than turn and run for help, she commits herself to the field; she rushes in after him even as she keeps an eye on G’raha. “My lord, you must not engage - !”

“Too late,” G’raha murmurs as he draws on the tower’s aether to lob spell after spell at the Lightwarden. The twins are already attacking: Alisaie darts in beside the creature’s massive tail, her thin rapier leaving long dark lines that slowly begin to ooze black blood; Alphinaud is more careful, keeping to the side as his gaze wavers between their enemy and their Warrior of Light.

It’s terrifying and exhilarating and freeing, all at once, and G’raha doesn’t have time to think about it because this isn’t a minor eater - this is the largest sin eater in the region! This is the head of the swarm! This is a nightmare of Light made manifest, and if its claws won’t rend them to shreds he has no doubt it has other tricks in its arsenal. Every ounce of his attention focuses on the multitude of limbs, the constantly-lashing tail, the shriek that repeatedly pierces the air -

And the Warrior of Light drawing its attention.

“It’s going to pounce!” Alisaie shouts, scurrying back to the edges of the clearing. “Keep back!”

Vahl runs north, forcing the suddenly-tense creature away from the rest of them as the mages and Lyna duck low to avoid the heavy tail. G’raha’s heart leaps into his throat as the enormous white body leaps into the air - and accidentally interrupts his own spellcasting as Vahl conjures a dark shield of aether around himself.

How had he learned to do _that_?

The shield endurs the brunt of the Warden’s leaping attack, shattering under its heavy hands but leaving Vahl unscathed, and then the Warden leaps back. Its mad gaze sees the mages and dancer on its other side and, quick as a flash, it grabs one of its chains and whips it forward. G’raha and Alphinaud jump away, nearly tumbling over each other in their rush to dodge the massive links of iron, but Alisaie is not as quick. The chain wraps around her torso and goes taught, binding her in place even as the creature begins to drag her forward.

“Alisaie!” Alphinaud sets his carbuncle on the chain as Lyna and G’raha turn their attention to it, too; the sound of chakrams biting against iron makes G’raha wince, but after a few volleys the chain finally snaps and the Elf falls to the ground. 

The Warden roars in response and raises one of its massive arms off the ground. Everyone except Alisaie sprints to the opposite side of the clearing; the girl - still disoriented as she clambers to her feet - looks up just in time to see the cart-sized clawed hand begin to drop -

“Nope!” Vahl’s dark, scintillating shield covers her, enveloping her in black magic -

Just as G’raha’s own, shimmering white barrier does the same.

The Warrior and G’raha look at each other for a moment - Vahl’s grin obvious even across the clearing - and then the beast’s arm slams into the ground. The reverberations shake them all and Alphinaud cries out, scurrying forward with spells prepared, but as the dust clears and the Warden spins back to face Vahl they see Alisaie still standing, her body - and the ground around her feet - completely unmarked by the force of that hit.

“By the Twelve,” Alphinaud mutters, casting his own green barrier over all of them for good measure. “Be careful!”

“Don’t you scold me, Alphinaud!” 

“Please!” Lyna is out of breath as she dances across the field, dodging a low swipe of the creature’s tail even as she flings her chakrams forward. “Focus!”

“We are!” the twins shout in unison.

Through it all G’raha watches Vahl - the calm, controlled swings of his blade, his easy side-steps of each round of clawed swipes, the dark aether that somehow manages to blend his bladework with casting. He’d been just as focused when he’d been a warrior - just as talented at controlling the field - but his style has improved, his abilities have changed, and his confidence takes G’raha’s breath away.

What would Vahl think of G’raha’s own changes...?

“Exarch!” 

Lost in his train of thought - and still watching Vahl like a fool - G’raha hadn’t noticed the creature preparing to swipe with its tail, and suddenly finds himself staring at a wall of white flesh coming straight towards him - 

A yellow, magical rope ties itself round his stomach and _yanks_ , dragging him across the field with such surprising speed that he nearly drops his staff. The tail misses him by ilms as he almost collides with Alphinaud, who dispels the yellow aether to step away from G’raha’s stumbling. 

“My thanks!” G’raha’s cheeks flush red in embarrassment - and he keeps his gaze away from Lyna, who he knows is glaring at him - but he again turns his attention to the weakening Warden. Black blood oozes from dozens upon dozens of cuts and gashes as burns darken its white flesh; its breathing is haggard and heavy as its flailing limbs begin to slow. Large and powerful as it may be, it cannot withstand the constant flurry of attacks. 

It begins to pull back into another pounce, dredging up some measure of strength from somewhere deep within, when Vahl and Alisaie simultaneously dart forward on either end of it. The Hume’s greatsword cuts across the beast’s chest, leaving deep, oozing wounds just as Alisaie’s thin foil scores its side before piercing right through its side. The Elf flips back - the picture of elegance - as Vahl wedges his blade deeper - 

The Lightwarden staggers, its limbs faltering as they attempt to swat the Warrior away, and it throws back its head for a loud, rage-filled roar - but it is the last sound it makes. Its entire body shakes in a desperate final attempt to throw off its attackers before its limbs and tail thunder to the ground.

“It falls!” Lyna cries, and as G’raha dances back he watches the beast’s head roll forward, its long, purple tongue falling against its bleeding belly as it shudders - and finally comes to a stop.

Alisaie shouts in triumph, thrusting a fist into the air as Alphinaud claps his hands as if removing dust. The giant white creature sits like a gruesome monument, its purple nails caked with blood and gore and its wrists rubbed raw by the chains still attempting to bind it. For the Elf it had once been to end like this…

But this is not the end - not yet.

Lyna knows what comes next; she is already dragging the twins away from the manor. “Fall back! All of you!” 

“No!” G’raha reaches out a hand towards Vahl. “Stay where you are!”

Vahl’s eyes narrow - and in that moment the creature’s body bursts into shimmering, shining aether.

A roll of the dice - 

A gamble with a life that is not his to barter - 

A hope carried through generations to this, this untested magic in this bright, blinding world - 

G’raha watches open-mouthed as the Light showers his hero, his Warrior, his heart. The Hume doesn’t attempt to flee from the power, instead facing it directly as it rushes through him - _into_ him - and G’raha senses a moment’s fluctuation, as if Vahl’s aether is adjusting to this new sensation, before Vahl himself begins to glow white. A moment of doubt has G’raha moving forward with a moan - but Vahl flings his hand skyward, unleashing a burst of energy that rends the very clouds. G’raha - with the twins and Lyna behind him - can only stare as the pearlescent clouds draw back, and for the first time in nearly a century G’raha sees the night sky.

“Gods,” he murmurs. Tears well in his eyes and it is all he can do to stay on his feet. “Oh, gods.” 

It works - _it works_! Vahl is here, and he can absorb the Warden’s aether, and night - night has arrived! The Light is vanishing, as too will the Calamity, as too will Vahl’s impending death! G’raha wants to laugh, to cry, to wrap his arms around this Warrior of Light and spin him about the courtyard - but instead he slowly moves forward. Vahl turns to him as he approaches; his face is flushed and there is a look in his bright eyes that sets G’raha’s heart pounding even fiercer.

“Do you believe you can do that again?” G’raha asks quietly.

A grin slowly spreads across Vahl’s face and he brushes his hair back from his forehead. “A second dance, Exarch? You might have to buy me drinks first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone had an excellent 5.4!


	45. Trouble Comes Knocking

G’raha returns alone to the Crystarium; out of nerves he teleports to the opposite end of the bridge at Tessellation. His tower glows as brightly as it had back on the Source - like a lighthouse of crystal heralding safety in the darkest sea - but the city itself is unusually quiet. He can’t be sure what he expected - celebration? Panic? Rousing songs? - but as he slowly makes his way across the bridge he realizes why silence overpowers sound: everywhere he looks people sit or stand with their heads tilted back, their gazes fixed on the curtain of darkness far above. Some gather in clusters, their arms wrapped around each other, while others quietly point at constellations and bright stars as they take in their very first night sky.

A sudden, unexpected burst of emotion forces G’raha to bite his lip. Seeing the sky himself is one thing, but allowing his people the opportunity to do the same - the majority of which are too young to have glimpsed such a wonder themselves - is a completely different experience. It is as joyous as it is sorrowful: the return of something that should never have left is a stark reminder of how far they still have to go, throughout Norvrandt and beyond, and it bolsters G’raha’s drive to see it done.

Night _will_ return to the First - whatever the cost.

While a part of G’raha doesn’t want to disturb the idyllic scene ahead of him, he knows he cannot simply sneak by. Teleporting into his tower would only postpone the storm of questions awaiting him - and he is, after all, the one who enabled this sudden change of scenery. It is not fair to leave his people wondering and worrying overnight, no matter how exhausted he might be.

They notice him slowly - a few at first, but then more and more turn in his direction as he makes his way towards the Rotunda. What began as silence gradually grows to murmurs, to flustered excitement, to thundering applause. G’raha feels his cheeks flush and he raises his hands, hoping to calm the crowd of citizens and soldiers, but then someone yells, “Speech!” and the cry is carried round and round. 

It seems his bed must wait a little longer.

“My friends!” he cries, raising one hand higher. “Night has returned to Lakeland!”

The cheers! The hollars! The pounding feet and clapping hands! Someone is whistling between their fingers; the mood is infectious, and G’raha cannot help grinning along with them. 

“I understand this brings more questions than answers!” he continues, gesturing to the darkness above his head. “I understand this is a change, just as I understand that this might create new worries for our future!” He pauses. He can see Katliss and her crafters and gatherers along the second-floor balconies; Moren and his scholars near the Rookery; Bragi and his merchants crowding the Aetheryte Plaza; though Lyne is still afield her soldiers are here aplenty. “Please be assured that this - this wonderful sight above us - is by design! It is a first step, from how many steps I know not, but it is the beginning we have long hoped for! This night’s sky heralds the end of the Flood! It heralds a new beginning in a world free of sin eaters - a new beginning for you and your children!”

He pauses again as the cheers overwhelm him, and as he looks around once more his eyes catch sight of something he would never have expected to see: Travyrs, wearing his plaid robe and leaning heavily on his cane, stands not far from Katliss on the balcony above. 

“A new beginning,” G’raha repeats softly, grinning up at his old friend, and then throws his arms wide. “So please! For the first time in a long time, I bid you to take a good night’s rest beneath the stars! And tomorrow - tomorrow we shall watch the sunrise together!”

Applause, laughter, even tears - it carries through the crowd and fills the Rotunda, and G’raha’s heart is full to witness it. 

If they could bring this joy to all of Norvrandt…!

He catches Travyrs’s eyes again; the Elf makes no move to leave, and G’raha slowly begins to make his way through the celebrations to reach him. Between the congratulations and gratitude he hears whispers of conversations; the words “Warrior of Darkness'' are repeated many, many times.

It was the right choice to ask Vahl to return on his own - to request that he and the twins return after G’raha has had a chance to speak with his people. They are not ready to deal with the repercussions of that kind of responsibility falling to Vahl’s shoulders.

Not yet, at least.

By the time G’raha finally reaches Travyrs most of the crowds have dispersed to continue their revelry elsewhere. Suddenly feeling strangely shy, G’raha stops a few fulms away from the Elf. 

“My friend the miracle-worker,” Travyrs murmurs, shaking his head. “Lofty aspirations, eh?”

“With a tower like mine, how could they not be?”

The Elf snorts. He tilts his head back, his tear-bright eyes taking in the multitude of stars above them. “You know, I’d almost forgotten what it looked like. My memory did not do it justice.”

“I know the feeling,” G’raha replies quietly, and though his eyes are on the stars his thoughts are on a dark knight he knows is slowly making his way back to the Crystarium. He gives himself a little shake and looks back to his friend. “You’ve left your room.”

The laugh that escapes Travyrs is more nervous giggle than anything else. “That I have! For the first time in decades! And, though I love what you’ve done to the place, I believe I’d like to return sooner rather than later.”

“Would you like me to -”

The Elf’s glare is potent. “Escort me? Please tell me those were not the words waiting upon your tongue.”

“ _Accompany_ you,” G’raha stresses with a grin. “As I always have.”

“Ah, well.” Travyrs waves a hand. “No, thank you. I have a mind to take your earlier advice - I believe I’ll sleep with the shutters open tonight.” He begins to walk past G’raha but stops beside him; his voice is quiet as he says, “Your new friends are absent this evening, Exarch.”

G’raha’s grin shifts into a content, tired smile. “Only for a short while. They were with me, after all.”

“I thought as much.” The Elf pats his shoulder before resuming his slow walk towards the Pendants. “Have a good night, my crystal friend.”

As Travyrs leaves, G'raha turns his attention back to Lakeland. Somewhere beyond the jagged grey mountains and purple canopy are his new companions; at their speed it will be a while yet before they reach the Crystarium, but G’raha has no plans to meet with them again before sunrise. Exhaustion drags at him, as he knows it surely does the Scions as well, and whatever must be said can wait until morning.

Feeling far more optimistic than he has in a long time, G’raha makes his way to bed.

*

While the sunrise is just as spectacular as G’raha hoped, the sudden arrival of the Eulmoran military manages to spoil what had promised to be a wonderful day.

“What could they possibly want in Laxan Loft?”

Lyna shakes her head. “Whatever they want can wait - their emissary is almost at our gates.”

G’raha doesn’t snarl - but his teeth pierce his lip in the effort not to. He knew it would not be long before Eulmore discovered the new situation in Lakeland and made some form of retaliation - but he’d thought they’d have more time! He had expected to parley! For them to move their own military into his land without so much as a message…!

“They have some nerve,” he grumbles. He turns to the Viis. He’d wanted to speak with her about Holminster Switch - not just about what Vahl had done, but also about the lives lost before their arrival - but there will be no time for that now. “If you could send word to the twins and Vahl that would be most appreciated. I find myself requiring their aid far sooner than I had hoped.”

Whatever she thinks of all of this, her face is unreadable. “Of course, my lord.” She salutes him and leaves, allowing him a few moments of privacy to watch a squadron of purple-armoured Eulmoran troops disembark their airship.

While this is not going as he had hoped, he is quite sure it will not proceed as Eulmore wishes it to, either.

The twins arrive quickly, one after the other, and it is not long before Vahl strides into the Ocular. He looks refreshed and eager, his bright eyes skimming over his friends and the Exarch before settling on the figures in the crystal mirror behind him.

“Eulmore.”

“Indeed.” G’raha shifts to stand sideways, allowing him the ability to look back and forth between the mirror and his guests. “It seems they are rather more upset with our actions than I anticipated. You arrive mere footsteps ahead of their emissary, and I doubt he comes bearing good news.”

“Barely enough time for a celebration before someone comes through complicating things, eh?” Vahl shrugs. “Please tell me you’ll let me meet this emissary.”

“Not...quite as you would expect to.” Vahl’s eyes narrow just as someone knocks at the Ocular door, and G’raha shifts his attention yet again. “A moment, please!”

A wave of his staff turns his crystal mirror blank, and another wave settles a glamour of invisibility over the trio. His Ocular suddenly appears empty - though the surprised gasps from the twins give away the game. 

“Pray forgive me for not allowing you to participate,” G’raha says, looking at where he assumes the Warrior is. “But Eulmore is not ready to learn of you and the part you will play in this. I ask you to trust me, please.”

“You need not ask, Exarch.” Vahl’s voice comes from further away than G’raha guessed. “I am always eager to be a fly on the wall.”

“If this emissary attacks you…” Alisaie is near Vahl, and she sounds much less pleased with this situation than he does.

“By all means, retaliate - but I do not believe it will come to that.” Turning away from his invisible guests, G’raha looks to the door out to the tower. He knows who waits on the other side, though he wishes it were anyone else. 

One does not easily sneak around a viper.

“Enter, please!”

Lyna pushes open the door, leading the one-and-only commander of the Eulmoran Army inside. General Ran’jit wears his customary white-and-black robe, a tradition from a part of Norvrandt lost to Light, and the deep scars across his face are just as G’raha remembers them. They have not met often - and rarely spoken face-to-face - but the humourless grey eyes evoke no bonds of neighbourly friendship.

Eulmore’s emissary speaks for Vauthry, and it is immediately apparent that Vauthry is not pleased.

“Greetings, General Ran’jit.” G’raha does not bow or salute; as Exarch he outranks the general - and he is quite happy to remind the man of that. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?”

“To the death of Lakeland’s Lightwarden,” the Hume states, his tone implying it is obvious. “You cannot pretend you have not noticed the change in your sky. Were you involved?”

“I am not sure why you believe I would be,” G’raha replies, keeping his tone as light as the other man’s is terse. “I know you are aware of how our last attempt against a Lightwarden fared, and there is little reason for us to try the same mistake twice.” He tilts his head to one side. “It is strange, I must admit, to find your airship docked not far from my city this morning. What is Vauthry’s sudden interest in Lakeland?”

“His Benevolence has no interest in Lakeland.” Ran’jit looks down his nose, his expression quite similar to one G’raha would imagine he’d wear were his boots marred with pond scum. “Were the sky still bathed in Light I would not be here now. You, of all people, must understand that we cannot allow our relations with the sin eaters to be jeopardized.”

“I, of all people?” 

Ran’jit’s eyes flash. “The Crystarium and Eulmore have long been allies. Ever since your _city_ sprang up from the muck we have worked together for the betterment of Norvrandt. Neither I nor Vauthry wish to throw that away - but we are prepared to do whatever is necessary against the villains who saw fit to desecrate a body of Light.”

G’raha doesn’t allow his shock and anger to show. He hadn’t expected them to be quite so forthright - but he will not pander to Eulmore. Not with Vahl in the room. “It appears the Crystarium takes an opposing view to this change of circumstances. We are celebrating the return of our night sky, and I would congratulate whoever saw fit to rid our land of the scourge which plagued it.” He lowers chin as he lowers his voice. “ _Villains_ , indeed.”

The pity in the general’s eyes sparks G’raha’s anger even further, and his words do little to dampen the flames. “I had not taken you for a fool, Exarch, but for you to throw away wisdom and reason for the sake of _hope…_ ” He closes his eyes. “Eulmore recognizes this world approaches its end. His Benevolence allows us to live out the end of our days in peace - and you would risk innocent lives by throwing yourself against our sin eater allies? Unacceptable.” His grey eyes snap open. “I am not here to convince you. Walk this path and Lord Vauthry will have no choice but to retaliate. Should any of your citizenry prove wiser than yourself know that they will be welcome in Eulmore.” He turns on his heel - but twists his head to the side, directly towards where Vahl and the twins are hidden. “I will see you again.”

The door closes behind him and G’raha taps his staff against the floor, dispelling the glamour even as he stares forward. Word games, mind games, magical games - how had Eulmore known so quickly? How had Ran’jit seen through his magic?

How were they going to continue to save this world if its inhabitants were so damned resistant to being saved?

“He serves Vauthry?” Alphinaud also watches the door; when G’raha turns to look at him he notices the grey tint to the boy’s skin.

“He does - though it might be said he serves Eulmore itself. He led their army even before Vauthry’s time, and has turned from its most fearsome warrior to Vauthry’s loyal lapdog.” G’raha inclines his head. “Though I would not speak ill of his skills even now. General Ran’jit is not a man to be taken lightly.”

Vahl shifts forward with his arms crossed. It is difficult to guess what thoughts wander through his head - but G’raha feels confident they share the same distaste for the Eulmoran general. “I assume they, too, subscribe to the legend of the Warrior of Darkness?”

G’raha’s confidence warbles. “Who - who told you that name?”

“It seems most of the Crystarium believes the night’s sky is a sign of their saviour’s arrival.” Vahl cocks his head to one side. “Are you making me into a legend, Exarch?”

Words desert G’raha entirely. Yes, he is, and it is the type of manipulation Vahl had begun to rebel against even before they breached the rift to the Thirteenth. 

“You are already a legend,” Alphinaud says tiredly. “Whether a Warrior of Light or a Warrior of Darkness, you are who you are regardless of what anyone attempts to do.”

Vahl inclines his head, though he doesn’t look pleased. “True.” He shakes out his arms as his frown deepens. “Why give the warning? Why not attack outright if they are so convinced you are the cause?”

To G’raha’s surprise Lyna steps forward. “Because he wants to distract you.” Her lilac gaze is intense as she looks to G’raha. “My lord, the Eulmoran forces have taken a prisoner within Laxan Loft. It appears Ran’jit believes us unaware of this, and that is the only reason I allowed him within.”

G’raha steps forward. A prisoner? In his lands? One of _his_ people? “Who?”

“The Oracle of Light.”

“Minfilia?” The twins react simultaneously. Vahl’s gaze sharpens as his jaw clenches, and G’raha’s feels his stomach drop.

Had he forgotten to tell Vahl...?

“We believe they intend to return her to Eulmore’s gaols,” Lyna continues, oblivious to the explosive nature of that name in this company. “Ran’jit, at least, would want her out of Lakeland before initiating hostilities.”

Vahl turns to G’raha, a look in his eyes that has G’raha’s heart skittering and his tail attempting to wind about his thigh. “What do they mean, ‘Minfilia’? _Our_ Minfilia?”

“I am, regrettably, not the one to ask.” Gods, he does not want to have this discussion. He knows too little, and the emotions it will evoke will not be pleasant. Perhaps it is cowardly to pass this revelation on to someone else, but G’raha cannot be sure he will do it justice. “You met with Moren on your tour of the Crystarium, did you not? I would encourage you to seek him out and pose your questions to him directly - his study of Norvrandt includes the Oracle, and he will have more answers than I do.”

“We will join you,” Alisaie says, cutting off Vahl before he can attempt to argue. “What little I know of the Oracle is patchwork at best.”

“So be it.” Vahl turns away without another look towards G’raha - a move that he struggles not to take personally. “We shall see you shortly, Exarch.”

He watches Vahl and the twins depart, following the same path out that Ran’jit had, and when the door closes behind them he is left alone with Lyna.

“ _Is_ he the Warrior of Darkness?”

“Ah.” G’raha sighs and closes his eyes. So many pieces of this puzzle; so many souls caught up in his machinations - but he hopes - gods, does he hope - that they will still think well of him at the end. “Might I convince you to forget you heard that?”

“I saw his actions with my own two eyes,” Lyna says quietly. “Would you have me forget Holminster, too?”

“You,” G’raha says, “are entirely too clever.” He opens his eyes to find her smiling ruefully at him. 

“I had a clever mentor to emulate.” The smile vanishes. “So it will be war, then?”

As unsettling as it is to hear her say those words, G’raha steels himself for whatever may come. “Perhaps - but I believe fate is beckoning us west. Let us first see what Laxan Loft has in store for us.” His voice drops to a murmur as he turns back to his mirror, allowing it to again show the Eulmoran military moving about the deserted fortress. "And what the Oracle of Light means to our newest guest."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still in slow-writing-mode because 110% of my brain is stuck creating lesson plans. (I've literally started dreaming about them...) Hoping to break free from work next week and get my alt up through 5.0 to keep writing!
> 
> Thanks, as always for reading! :)


	46. Our Lies, Our Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably isn’t a surprise, but expect a few spoilers for the DRK quests as we continue on. I'm not going to go through them quest by quest, but what happened in those stories is almost as important to Vahl as what happened in the MSQ - I can't _not_ reference them!

Nervous energy buzzes across the Crystarium. The news of Eulmore’s arrival in Lakeland has everyone talking; as G’raha makes his way across the Exedra and through the Aetheryte Plaza he is pelted by questions and ideas, by overeager soldiers and worried chirurgeons; by the need to provide answers as best he can - most of which amount to little more than, “please find Captain Lyna” - but his feet lead him ever onwards, past the crowds and running soldiers and out into the sunny area beyond the plaza. As he approaches the Rookery he finds the soul he’d hoped to catch up to.

“Vahl!”

The Warrior halts, turning with one eyebrow raised as G’raha hurries to meet him. His disposition has not been the same since he learned of Minfilia, and though G’raha expects the withdrawal it still hurts to see it.

“I wanted to apologize before you left,” he says. There are so many things they both should be doing, but he cannot let this go unmentioned. “Minfilia was dear to you - forgetting to mention her appearance on this shard was a grave error on my part. I promise you I shall do better in the future.”

Some of the disappointment thaws from Vahl’s eyes. “I shouldn’t blame you, really. You’re ruling a city, trying to save your world, and moving various pieces into play - you’re doing remarkably well, all things considered.”

The flattery is almost as surprising as the understanding tone it’s delivered with, but something about Vahl’s wording makes G’raha shake his head. “This isn’t a game, and you are not a pawn.”

Vahl’s face shifts - much as it had the day before, when they sat together in the Wandering Stairs - and his eyes unfocus as he murmurs, “Forgive and forget. _Can_ I be controlled?” 

A sliver of fear shoots through G’raha’s chest. He takes a step forward. “Vahl?”

The Warrior violently shakes his head and rests his fingers against his brow - but before G’raha can do anything the moment has passed: Vahl stands straight, his eyes once again clear, and he moves out of G’raha’s reach. “My apologies. Memories are sometimes fickle things.”

“Who tried to control you?”

The haunted, scarred look in Vahl’s eyes is almost as unsettling as his unfocused stare. “Who hasn’t?” He looks at his hands. “I - I’ll see you at Laxan Loft, I suppose?”

“You will.” As much as G’raha wants to shake the answers out of him he knows now is not the time - that there might never _be_ a time - and his heart aches for the breach he cannot heal. “Take care of yourself.”

“Haven’t died yet,” Vahl says dismissively. He gives G’raha a loose Gridanian salute as he begins to walk away. “Meet you on the other side, Exarch.”

 _But you did,_ G’raha wants to say. _I read the words carved upon your grave._

Instead he watches, and worries, and wonders.

*

G’raha dismounts his amaro in one smooth motion, landing upon one of the higher levels of Laxan Loft. The Eulmoran military is in disarray, fragmented - and partially asleep - while Lyna’s soldiers clear a path through them. Lyna and Vahl are ahead, hopefully freeing the Oracle, while the rest of the Scions bolster the Crystarium soldiers; G’raha is here only as back-up should Ran’jit engage them.

G’raha fully expects Ran’jit to try.

The gently-falling pink dust adds an otherworldly shimmer to the air; G’raha’s scattered, hectic mind notices it, appreciates it, and quickly moves on to the noises coming from below. The Eulmoran military is not backing down without a fight, regardless of how many are face-down in the purple shrubbery or flat on their backs with weapons still in hand.

The Crystarium and Eulmore, battling each other in the ancient seat of the Elven kingdom? G’raha would not believe it were he not seeing it with his own two eyes. They have been allies! They have been the two strongest powers in Norvrandt since the Flood decimated the rest of the world! Together they have managed to establish a modicum of peace - a semblance of normality - and all of that has been reduced to _nothing_?

He needs to speak with Vauthry.

“Exarch - this is _your_ party?”

G’raha snaps around, staff in hand, but lowers his weapon as a white-haired Hume steps out of the shadows along the battlements. While it has been over three years since last they met, this gunbreaker is unmistakable. “I assumed you’d be close.”

Thancred looks exhausted: dark circles under his eyes and sunken cheeks speak to the physical toil he’s put himself through, while the shadows in his eyes only hint at the mental turbulence that lurks behind. “She ran away. Middle of the night - which I thank you for returning - she snuck out of our damn camp without a word. Don’t know what’s gotten into her.” He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re here to help?”

“Vahl is.”

Thancred’s gaze sharpens. “Vahl. Good.”

“Ran’jit is here, too.”

“Not so good.”

“If you have to run, take her north,” G’raha orders. “Vahl too, if it comes to that. Lakeland won’t be safe much longer, but Eulmore wouldn’t dare invade Il Mheg.”

“Lakeland won’t be -” Thancred cuts himself off with a curse. “What kind of games are you playing, Exarch?”

G’raha’s smile shows all of his teeth. “The endgame, if I’m lucky.” He jerks his head behind him. “I shall wander the walls, if you prefer the ground?”

The gunbreaker doesn’t bother replying; he simply launches himself over the battlements to the fighting below.

“Excellent chatting with you, as always,” G’raha says to empty air. With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, he turns to hurry towards where he hopes he will find Vahl.

*

Thancred, it turns out, chose the correct path. Of course he challenged Ran’jit; of course he made himself known; of course he risked himself - 

Of course he gave G’raha just enough time to catch up.

Coming around a corner to find Vahl and the Scions struggling on their knees brings G’raha up short. He grasps his staff in both hands as his focus narrows - as the very air around him seems to slow and thicken, as seconds elongate and his pulse slows - 

Vahl is hurt.

The temptation to channel his power is overwhelming - to toss Ran’jit into the rift, consequences be damned, and cut this nightmare off at the knees - and G’raha forcibly twists his rage away from the general below him. _The Exarch_ would not kill the general; the Exarch would find a peaceful conclusion; the Exarch would do whatever he could to guarantee his people came out of this safely. 

But - if he cannot teleport Ran’jit somewhere dangerous, he can at least teleport the Scions somewhere safe.

Allagan runes appear in perfect circles around Lyna, Minfilia, and each of the Scions, one after another, and even as Ran’jit dashes forward G’raha’s magic pulls their souls to the west, teleporting them beyond the confines of Laxan Loft.

He hopes Thancred will take them north. He hopes the twins will remember all they have learned of the Lightwarden of Il Mheg. He hopes Urianger is there, eager to assist and accustomed to dealing with the fae - 

And he hopes, most of all, that Vahl will be safe.

Ran’jit roars in frustration as his prey vanishes before his very eyes, and G’raha sets off after him as he hurries west. How the man might know where to look both worries and angers G’raha; magic is supposed to have rules! Magic is supposed to be predictable! Whatever power Ran’jit possesses does not follow the laws of aether as G’raha understands them, and - rather than take any chances - he pulls a tiny Allagan cube from his pocket as he runs. He normally avoids such showy powers, especially in view of the public, but as Ran’jit prepares to launch himself after the Scions G’raha decides this is worth the risk.

And he has grown strangely fond of this particular spell.

“Break!”

For a moment - a flicker of panic - G’raha thinks the general will overpower his hold. Ran’jit’s movement slows glacially as the spell attempts to lock his limbs in place; a crazed, frantic look enters the Hume’s face as he twists his head back to scowl at G’raha. There is no sanity in that gaze; no understanding or recognition; all that G’raha sees is a flash of purest, deepest hatred, before - 

Ran’jit stops resisting. He allows the spell to hold him in place as his entire demeanor shifts, and though G’raha feels a moment’s relief he does not trust it.

As the power in the Allagan cube fades the spell dissipates, allowing Ran’jit the ability to move once more. Instead of taking off after the Scions Ran’jit faces G’raha directly, an expression of deepest loathing twisting his narrow face, and G’raha steels himself for whatever might come.

“You are a fool to challenge Eulmore,” Ran’jit spits. “You risk the entire Crystarium!”

“Perhaps,” G’raha says. He drops the spent Allagan cube to the ground. “But my people have made their choice. If it is a war you want, then it is a war you shall have.” The general takes a step forward and G’raha stops him with a discerning smile. “However, at the moment you are trespassing on my land. I must ask that you depart, though I would suggest you collect your sleeping soldiers before you do.”

The general snarls, but the sound of rushed footsteps behind G’raha stops him from making any move forward. A crowd of Crystarium soldiers joins them, each with weapon drawn, and G’raha finally allows himself to relax. Ran’jit turns away, willing to comply in the face of unknown magic and a bevy of enemy soldiers, and G’raha spares a glance at the five distant figures making for the northwestern mountains.

“Good luck,” he murmurs, “Warrior of Darkness.”

*

“War,” Travyrs mutters. He slouches across from G’raha, sunk deep in his plush chair, and a bottle of ale has replaced his usual mug of tea. His gaze is distant - locked on to some sight only he can see - and he has not stopped frowning since G’raha took his own seat. “After all this time, who would have guessed it should come to this?”

G’raha doesn’t reply. His tea chilled long ago, yet he has made no move to set down his cup or replace it. He feels listless - drained - run ragged by the day’s events. Even the bright sun cascading through the open window does little to improve his mood.

“Your thoughts aren’t with me.”

“No, and for that I apologize.” G’raha shifts to meet the Elf’s sharp gaze. “I am unsure if I made the right choice - for any number of things - but there is no alternate path I may take.” He looks out the window, watching a particularly fluffy white cloud pass over the distant horizon. Clouds, returned to Lakeland! A blue sky and a bright sun! For these marvels he should be rejoicing - and yet - “I find myself gambling more often than I am comfortable with.”

Travyrs’s head tilts to one side. “I see.”

G’raha gives himself a shake. This is nothing to bother Travyrs with; this is secrets and whispers and plans best kept to himself. “Again, my friend, I am sorry. It seems I have taken to rambling as well.” He places his mug on the table at his side, but before he can say anything else Travyrs’s door bursts open.

“I knew I would find you here!” Lyna stops on the threshold, one hand holding open the heavy door as her lilac eyes pin G’raha to his chair. “The council has called a meeting, my lord. It is imperative you are in attendance.”

“Concerning Eulmore?” A stupid question that he regrets even as he asks it; of course this is about Eulmore. “I shall be there momentarily.”

She salutes him before giving Travyrs a quick nod of acknowledgement. They wait until she leaves before looking at each other - the Elf wears an expression halfway between sympathy and “I told you so”. 

“If it’s any help, I don’t hold you responsible.”

“I do,” G’raha mutters. He leans forward and clasps his hands together between his knees; his gaze cannot help following the lines of gold within his crystal arm. “In all my years in Norvrandt I did not account for Eulmore changing as it has. Never did I assume any would turn to the sin eaters as _allies_ \- I could not believe any would lay down both their weapons _and_ the hope of future generations.”

“The blame is not yours,” the Elf argues. “You could not predict Vauthry’s actions, let alone guess how desperation and despair might begin to affect this world.”

Couldn’t he? Hadn’t he walked through Ishgard and Ala Mhigo? The Blue Imperials had been similar to the Elezen: they had turned aside from the Ironworks in order to carve out a world in which they might rule their small slice, even as the Reds and the Ascians dwindled their power by bits and pieces; as their people starved and fell victim to somnus and other, fouler substances; as hope itself ran dry.

The frustrating aspect with Eulmore is that the ones at the top are _not_ starving; they are _not_ struggling to survive; they seem blind to every problem outside their walls while they indulge in a life of idleness. Their goal isn’t salvation or survival or even vengeance - and G’raha has little patience for fools striving for _comfort_ in a world fighting to exist.

“Is there nothing I can do?” When G’raha wordlessly shakes his head Travyrs sinks lower in his chair with a sigh. “ _Secrets_. You have a magnitude more than the average person, my friend, and I hope the day will come when I might assist you with even one of them. Perhaps we’ll trade - one of mine for one of yours?”

“I wasn’t aware you kept secrets,” G’raha says mildly. He rises, smoothing out the wrinkles across his robe, and moves to the door. “Mine are rather similar to a house of cards: should one fall the others will inevitably follow.”

“Ah, a jackpot, then!” Travyrs doesn’t rise; he waves G’raha onwards with a wrinkled hand. “Go catch up before she hunts you down yet again.” His gaze suddenly sharpens. “You didn’t say yes, but I consider it a deal. One secret each.”

G’raha nods and attempts to smile, but as he makes his way down the Pendants’ iron staircase he cannot help hating his own cowardice. Were he any stronger he’d at least tell Travyrs this silly exchange cannot happen - but that truth is messy, as that truth is complicated, as that truth will spawn even more worries and uncomfortable questions and the likelihood that someone will try to stop him.

If G’raha is to have any measure of success he cannot tell Travyrs that his secrets will only come to light once he is dead.

*

“We handled ourselves well today,” Lyna says. “Few casualties and the successful rescue of Eulmore’s prisoner is a bolstering first engagement - but I do not believe we should count on such success in the future. Eulmore’s military is larger, and their access to airships gives them an additional boost.”

“Not to mention the savageness of their general,” Bragi mutters from his end of the table.

“Ran’jit is a wildcard,” the Viis admits. She paces along one side of the room, hands behind her back as her long legs take her up and down the length of the crystal chamber. “Today’s actions were motivated by the Oracle of Light - I cannot say what Ran’jit will be tempted to do in the future. Will he take to the field to lead his army against us, or is he hellbent on chasing Minfilia?” She stops to rub her forehead. “I will place scouts at the northern pass, though I do not truly believe anyone so foolish as to venture within Il Mheg's borders.”

“The general is not foolish,” G’raha says, speaking for the first time in this quiet, sombre meeting. “He will follow the Oracle if he believes her freedom jeopardizes Eulmore’s pact with their eaters.” He meets Moren’s gaze across the table; the long-haired man slowly nods. G’raha winces and drops his gaze. “I do not believe we must needs shore up our defenses anytime soon.”

“Bait,” Katliss says quietly, tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You hope the general will follow the girl.”

“I do not _hope_ he does - I consider it inevitable. The Scions will draw Ran’jit north, allowing us time to prepare.” He is careful to avoid Lyna’s gaze. “They may try to move their forces through Lakeland. I would hesitate to prevent them from doing so, if only to limit casualties and keep their gaze off of the Crystarium for a little longer.”

“I will need to alert my gatherers.” Katliss rises and nods to everyone in turn. “We’ll pull out of western Lakeland immediately.”

“But our lumber -“ Bragi bites his tongue as the Elf glares at him. “I meant to say - our lumber stores are sufficiently stocked for - for a few weeks, at least.”

“Anything else?”

Lyna shakes her head. The Elf departs without another word, quickly followed by Bragi muttering something about his merchants in Kholusia. Left alone with Moren and the Viis, G’raha remains silent. 

Ascians need not be present for selfish men to rise to power - but G’raha knows his history. He knows who began Garlemald; who pushed the Ishgardian Archbishop towards desperation; who spurred on the Griffin and the Shadowkeeper and every other agent of evil on this shard and the Source. Could a Herald of Darkness have taken up in Eulmore? Could one of those twisted souls be whispering into Vauthry’s ear even now?

He shouldn’t jump to conclusions. He has no proof - he lacks even basic evidence - but he also knows the Ascians have no doubt noticed him. That they have yet to make any moves against him is both a relief and a worry; if they have delayed in attacking the Crystarium only to allow Eulmore to do it for them…

It wouldn’t be the first time their battles were fought by proxy. 

“You believe your friends can hold their own against Ran’jit?”

G’raha meets Lyna’s sharp gaze. He’d seen how easily they’d been bested in Laxan Loft; he knows the general would not have shown his entire hand even in that short engagement. Perhaps with Urianger aiding them - or the fae folk - 

“I must believe they will keep ahead of him,” he says instead. “If Vahl is anything he is certainly determined.”

The Viis’s eyes snap to Moren. “Would you mind leaving us, please? I must have words with our lord alone.”

“Oh - oh, of course!” The archivist hurries to gather his scattered books and papers into his arms; the ruffling of parchment and leather fills the room as he scoops up a mess of documents, screeches his chair back from the table, and shuffles outside. 

Lyna comes forward to rest both palms against the top of the table; G’raha fights the urge to pull away from the power of her stare. “Did you send Vahl to Lyhe Ghiah?”

“I -”

“Secrets have their time and place, my lord, but this one is about to become too obvious even for you to conceal. Why hide the arrival of our Warrior of Darkness?”

G’raha hugs his chest. Had he not called her too clever for her own good? Had he not raised her? Cared for her? Loved her?

Of course she’d see through his ruse.

“The answer to your question is in your wording,” he says quietly. “Vahl is not ‘ours’. The amount of titles that man holds is beyond even my ability to recite, and I am well-aware that he does not desire any additions to the list. I would hesitate to parade him before our people lest he come to resent their expectations of him.”

Lyna leans closer. “And if he comes to resent _your_ expectations?”

He looks away. He cannot say if it is inevitable or not, but the signs are already there. This morning’s meeting in the Ocular had been evidence enough. “That will be between the two of us.”

“Exarch -” Lyna stops. She pulls back from the table as a frown wrinkles her forehead. “Are you well?”

The tension drains out of him and he smiles - crookedly, yes, but it is still genuine. “I am - though I am worried for our people and our world, and suddenly find myself busier than I have been in years.” He reaches across the table, palm up, and his smile softens as she takes his hand. “Thank you for putting up with me. There are times I wonder if I ask too much of you.”

“I would say you do not ask enough,” she counters. She squeezes his hand once before letting go. “I must relay our orders west.”

“And I must see to our chirurgeons.” G’raha waves her towards the door. “Do not let me keep you.” He watches her leave, grinning as she gives him a small wave - the same farewell she’d used as a child, before she’d joined the guard and taken up the mantle of responsibility - and he battles a sudden burst of guilt.

His long-eared daughter of the heart will not approve of the cost of their world’s salvation - but he has to believe she will eventually come to understand.

One day she will forgive him.


	47. Familiar Faces and Worn-out Places

“Our hope is to increase our cotton production by twenty per cent,” Thiuna says, gesturing to the bolts of cloth behind her. Most are undyed, though a few are bright red. “With trade through Kholusia hampered we’ve turned to the Hortorium to assist us, but there is only so much space in Sweetsieve and Katliss has dedicated the majority to food.”

“I do see the logic in that,” G’raha comments mildly.

The Viis grudgingly nods. “Of course, of course - but we could build another plot for cotton - or even flax, my lord, I would take flax in a heartbeat! My weavers can make miracles out of linen - but they cannot make miracles out of air.”

“I have heard the same from our smithies,” G’raha admits, gesturing to the Hume smith across the Mean. “Not enough room, not enough resources, and not enough time. Is there nothing to be harvested in Amh Araeng?”

“Spices and popotoes,” the weaver says with a shrug. “Neither of which do anything for my people.”

“No, I would imagine not. And the gatherers have been recalled from Lakeland?”

“They are not allowed past the Accensor Gate.” The Viis fluffs her hair as her gaze strays to the Mystel to her right; Qeshi-Rae is surrounded by a crowd of frustrated botanists, each fighting to make their worries known over their companions’. “Flax is rotting in the fields, my lord. I understand there is danger, but -”

A tiny _pop_ interrupts her. Both Thiuna and G’raha take a step back as a bright green pixie appears in the space between them, aether sparkling around it as it reorients itself to face G’raha, and he feels his heart jump into his throat. It has been almost two weeks since the Scions went north, and though Eulmore followed them there has been no word from either party.

“What news?” he demands. 

The pixie twirls in the air, letting loose another shower of aether, and its grin makes G’raha’s breath catch. “The king is dead! Dead, dead, dead! The king is dead - and a new king has taken their place! All hail Titania!”

“Dead?” G’raha swallows hard. “And - and the Light? The sky?”

“Exarch, you must see! Visit, visit, visit! The stars shine again over Lydha Lran!”

“Night?” Thiuna says quietly. Her eyes are wide on the other side of the pixie. “Night in Il Mheg?”

G’raha wants to dance - to hug this tiny creature - to run through the Mean hollering the news! He wants to cheer and stamp his feet! He has no idea how Vahl did it - if he encountered Ran’jit - if the Scions are well - 

But his plan proceeds!

“The gatherers might not be restricted much longer,” he says to Thiuna, who claps her hands together gleefully, and then he directs his attention back to the pixie. “Might we continue this conversation in my tower? There is much and more I would ask you.”

“Of course! Yes, yes, yes! I will meet you there!” Without another word the pixie _pops_ away, leaving only a shimmering burst of aether where they had been.

Tempting as it might be to do the same, G’raha knows using that kind of magic in such an obvious location would reveal a little too much about his own abilities. He salutes Thiuna, who seems near-to-bursting to spread this good news among the rest of the Mean, and begins his quick descent down to the Exedra.

*

A small part of G’raha doesn’t want to appear _too_ eager - but as he spies Vahl and the Scions entering the Crystarium he ignores that little voice. What would he gain in waiting for them in his Ocular? Why should he curb his enthusiasm and delay good news for the sake of propriety? 

It has been far too long since he had a chance to truly be excited.

“Welcome back!” he calls from the foot of his tower. The Scions and Minfilia approach him with tired smiles under a sky lit by stars; he expects they will not have the energy for much more than a quick greeting. “The news reached me yesterday - another Lightwarden unseated!”

“And Feo Ul crowned king!” Vahl seems amused even through his exhaustion. “They offered me the title first, you know, but I don’t think the crown would suit me.”

“Or the wings,” Thancred murmurs.

Vahl’s lips twitch. “We shall agree to disagree.” He gestures to Urianger, who regards G’raha with a strange expression. “One more Scion recruited! One more sky returned!”

“One more kidnapping attempt by Ran’jit foiled.” Thancred doesn’t look anywhere near as pleased as Vahl does. “I daresay we might have made an enemy of the man.”

“As if that hasn’t happened before.” Alisaie covers a yawn with her hand and smirks when her brother does the same. “Happy as I am at this reunion, I find myself in need of sleep. If no one minds…?”

“Of course not.” G’raha meets Vahl’s gaze; the Warrior raises an eyebrow. “Could I possibly ask for a minute of your time before you depart? Perhaps for a drink?”

“Just a minute?” Vahl grins, before suddenly frowning. He turns around, looking back towards the Aetheryte Plaza - and as his posture tenses the rest of the Scions do the same. G’raha remains at the back, peering over the twins’ shoulders as his excitement is quickly replaced by apprehension.

A tall, strangely-garbed man approaches them. His golden eyes range over all of them before coming to rest on Vahl - and the look on his face makes G’raha’s fur stand on end. Everything about the stranger’s demeanor has him on edge, from the ornate robes to the languid pace to the smirk on his pale face -

But it is the third eye in the center of his forehead that has G’raha grasping his staff in both hands.

There are no Garleans on the First.

“Yonder visage would surprise even the most jaded of men,” Urianger states, stepping between Minfilia and the newcomer. “Emperor Solus zos Galvus, founder of the Garlean Empire.”

“Looking remarkably spry for dead,” Vahl states. He also steps forward, blocking the twins as best he can. “But this isn’t the first Galvus to pull that trick, is it?” He jerks his chin towards the silent figure. “Elidibus? Or someone new?”

“Elidibus is otherwise detained.” The voice that comes out of that body is unexpected - low and smooth as silk, it speaks of elegance, of refinement, of intelligence and education - and something within G’raha chills as he recognizes it. _Who…?_ “I must admit, I am impressed by how quickly you deduced my true nature. Truly a Warrior for the people.” An Ascian glyph flares over the man’s face. “Welcome to the First, Warrior of Light. You may call me Emet-Selch.”

G’raha’s world tilts. He staggers backwards, catching himself only with the help of his staff. His heartbeat pounds in his ears and he struggles to draw breath as that name echoes in his mind -

Emet-Selch - one of the Prime Ascians! W’cheruh’s murderer! Standing here, in his city! 

He tells himself that W’cheruh hasn’t been born yet; that the other future is known to no one but him; that they have never truly met in this timeline -

But G’raha remembers Ishgard. He remembers a sky torn by magitek, dragons, and lightning, as he remembers fighting to reach Derrik and Biggs, as he remembers the bone-chilling fear as a black-robed figure stepped out of a purple-and-black voidgate - 

And that last sound, that _snap_ before a burst of dark aether ended a bright, wonderful soul -

The Scions don’t notice G’raha’s struggle behind them. They’re too enraptured by this Ascian, listening to whatever proposition slides across its forked tongue, and G’raha has to fight to draw his attention back to the present.

He has never killed a man in cold blood - but this, this smooth-talking, gently-smiling snake, this _monster_ \- 

If G’raha knew he would succeed he’d have unleashed his power already.

“Cooperation with your kind requires ignoring the oceans of blood upon your taloned hands,” Vahl growls, knocking G’raha clear of his dark thoughts. Never has he heard Vahl use _that_ tone. “That is not easily done.”

“A rather hypocritical stance to take, given present company.” The Ascian shakes his head as he raises his hands in a shrug. “Do you not desire peace?”

“An Ascian’s idea of _peace_ brings little comfort,” Thancred says. One hand reaches over his shoulder to wrap around the handle of his gunblade. “I would suggest you take your honeyed words elsewhere, lest my finger slips.”

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes. “Base threats from a base brute - I expected no less.” His golden eyes snap to Vahl. “We will speak again, hero. Do not think my attempt ends here.”

“Shame,” Vahl murmurs. He flicks his fingers at the Garlean like one might wave away a gnat. “Get you gone, devil.”

They watch as the Ascian conjures a voidgate and steps within; G’raha’s hands shake at the sight. That last day in Eight Sentinels - the day Derrik had forced him to teleport the tower and flee - the sky had been filled by the things.

Facing any of these monsters in battle is one matter; parleying with them is something else entirely. He had not anticipated this - but who would? Who would have ever dreamed that an Ascian would deem them worthy of barbed conversation, let alone an offer of truce?

Not that he believes the offer will last, of course. The issue will be determining _what_ this Ascian’s ulterior motives are, and _when_ his offer of help will exhaust itself.

“Exarch? Are you alright?”

G’raha blinks. Most of the Scions are conversing in low, angry tones, but Alisaie stands in front of him. He attempts to smile - to draw on a measure of confidence even as the safety he has built around him begins to crumble - and nods. “I will be fine. This is simply an unwelcome complication.”

“For all of us,” the girl grumbles. She turns back to the rest of the group. “Do we have a plan?”

Thancred shakes his head. “For now? Sleep seems best. Wherever that bastard has taken himself is out of our reach, and I would rather not spend the night wasting energy. He’ll be found when he wants to be.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “The Pendants still has a room for me?”

“It does,” G’raha says, and looks to Urianger and Minfilia. “And we shall request rooms for our newest guests as well. I don’t expect you’ll be here for long, but we can guarantee your comfort whenever the road leads you here.”

“I extend my gratitude.” Urianger gives him a slight bow, which Minfilia hurries to copy. 

“I’ll catch up with you,” Vahl says as the others begin to move south. His bright eyes are back on G’raha. “I know we mentioned a drink, but I don’t think I’m capable of sitting still for a while yet. Would you mind a small stroll instead?”

As discomforted and distracted as he is, G’raha cannot turn down _that_ type of offer. “I am always up for a bit of a wander.”

*

They take a slow, meandering path through the Exedra and the Rotunda. At this hour there are very few passersby - most of the city sleeps, so G’raha is careful to take them on a route that simply steers cleer of any soldiers on night patrols. The last thing he wants is for this conversation to be overheard.

“I take it you’re no stranger to Ascians.” Vahl’s attention is on the distant mountains hiding Lakeland from view. “Don’t know why I thought we’d avoid them even here.”

“I had begun to believe they had no reason to show themselves - but that was clearly a fool’s hope. We are undoing what they have laboured for ages to bring about. It was only a matter of time before they showed their hand.” 

“An unusual hand, at that. Who did you lose to Ascians?”

G’raha freezes. The unexpected change of topic blindsides him; he hadn’t realized he’d been quite so obvious back in the Exedra. He licks dry lips as he struggles to find the words, vaguely aware of Vahl finally noticing he stopped walking.

How to explain W’cheruh? How to explain the complicated relationship that still confuses G'raha all these years later, let alone the mess of circumstances that led them to Emet-Selch's presence?

“A friend,” he finally says. “Long, long ago. He took a blow that was meant for me.”

“Sad to say I know how that feels,” Vahl murmurs. “I am sorry for your loss, Exarch.” He gently gestures forward, implying they should continue on their walk, and G’raha forces his feet to follow. “You’ll be pleased to know our fight with the Lightwarden went smoothly, at least. No casualties, and Feo Ul is settling into their role with a worrisome amount of glee.”

“I’ll keep an eye on them.” G’raha’s mind keeps returning to Ishgard, to the impossibly-high cost of his late reaction, and he drags his attention to the present. “How did you find the rest of Il Mheg?”

“A far sight different from Coerthas, though I can’t say that I prefer one over the other. Interesting to see the difference between the two, of course, but I kept expecting dragons to throw themselves into the mix.” Vahl snorts. “As if the Fuath weren’t a big enough pain.”

“Ah - if I’d had more time I would have warned you about them -”

Vahl waves a hand dismissively. “We got what we needed, and they learned a little lesson of their own: they can’t drown _all_ of their problems.” He suddenly frowns. “This might be a longshot, but what do you know of the last Warrior of Light? Ardbert?”

“Ardbert?” Though admitting his lack of knowledge here is not nearly as uncomfortable as it had been with Minfilia, G’raha still regrets that he hadn’t given more time to this particular mystery. “Very little, I’m afraid. What he and his fellows did prior to their adventuring days, or how they came upon their end after the Oracle of Light returned them home, I cannot say.”

“Damn.” 

“Is it relevant, you think?”

The Warrior suddenly looks uncomfortable. “I - ah. That is to say -” He shrugs before rubbing the back of his neck with his hand - a nervous movement G’raha recognizes, and he immediately narrows his eyes. “Just - we met his old amaro, you see. Made me curious about the man’s life before all of this.”

“I see.” G’raha cannot fault Vahl for keeping secrets - it would be beyond hypocritical were he to try - but he cannot understand why the previous Warrior of Light might make him nervous. Sensing this is a topic he is not going to make much headway on, he shifts to his own curiosity. “I have a question for you, if you don’t mind.”

Immediately and obviously eager to change the conversation, Vahl grasps his chance. “Of course.”

“When did you become a dark knight?”

The humour drains from Vahl’s face faster than ice melting in Amh Araeng. Though he manages to keep walking, the blank expression in his eyes has G’raha doubting he sees much of anything around him. “That is...not an easy question to answer. The memories are - hazy. There are days I - I do not remember.”

G’raha realizes he is holding his breath and slowly, gently exhales. “Were you - were you hurt?”

“No. Not physically.” Vahl grits his teeth in a semblance of a smile. “You ever talk to yourself?”

“All the time,” G’raha admits.

“Do you ever receive a reply?”

He falls silent. The temptation to reach across the space between them and extend a sliver of aether - to delve beneath the surface, to use his healer’s training to determine if there is any sign of illness - passes with great effort. If Vahl requires healing surely he would ask for it.

“I hope you don’t think any less of me.”

“Of course not.” G’raha’s voice is too loud, too dismissive; he winces and tries again. “None have walked your path but you. If there were darker corners you stumbled upon along your journeys it is not for me to judge - but I would offer my assistance, if there is anything you believe I might help you with.”

Vahl stops to turn to him. His bright eyes scan the depths of G’raha’s hood, and though G’raha knows he cannot see beneath there is still a moment where he finds himself hoping for a sliver of recognition. “I suspect you’re a man who respects secrets.” Vahl’s jaw clenches before he suddenly tilts his head back to look at the stars. Some measure of peace - or, at the very least, control - calms his breathing. “I will consider your offer. No insult meant, of course, but a handful of talks aren’t quite enough to have me spilling my heart at your feet.”

“No insult taken - but I am a healer. If there is anything you require…”

“I will let you know. For now I think I will seek whatever rest might come my way.” Vahl’s smile does not quite reach his eyes. “Thank you for the walk and the offer, Exarch. You are - not quite what I expected you to be.”

G’raha cocks his head to one side. “I shall hope that is a compliment.”

“It is. Try not to dream of Ascians.”

“You as well.” G’raha stays where he is upon the Crystarium grounds, watching Vahl make his way towards the Pendants under the starry night sky. He almost doesn’t notice the lone soldier beelining her way towards him until she stands right in front of him. “Good evening! How may I help you?”

“Letter arrived for you, my lord.” She bows before holding a small white envelope between them. “Delivered by Eulmoran airship.”

“Indeed?” G’raha pinches the letter between forefinger and thumb, as one might delicately take a filthy napkin, and manages not to wrinkle his nose. “Thank you.”

“Of course, my lord.” The soldier salutes him before turning on her heel, returning from the direction she came.

A flowery script across the envelope’s front does nothing to quiet G’raha’s misgivings. He flips it over to stare at the Eulmoran crest stamped into red wax; his lip curls in distaste. “Vauthry,” he mutters. “As if I don’t have enough on my mind.” Sighing heavily, G’raha pockets the letter before looking towards Vahl’s distantly-receding figure. G’raha’s questions and concerns build up one on top of another, surmounting other worries as his attention settles on that gap of knowledge he desperately needs answers to.

If the Warrior of Light began to lose his grip on reality the Scions would notice.

Wouldn’t they?


	48. Dark Aether

G’raha’s dreams take him back to his future. He recognizes Ishgard immediately - the mess of battle around him and above him, the explosions and screams, the smell of burning timber and flesh - and he presses himself closer against the cold stone wall in front of him. Beyond it is the airship landing - but the familiar, terrifying scene is moving at a snail’s pace. G’raha watches an arrow soar through the air, moving at a speed butterflies would outfly, and though he wants to shout warnings - to raise his hand and cast, to blast the arrow out of the sky with aether - the dream locks him in place as the arrow reaches its target.

It is just as horrific a second time - it is even worse! Nalza falls slowly, almost elegantly, and there is nothing G’raha can do but watch. There is no hope that he will reach her, nor denial that the hit is as bad as he thinks it might be: he knows with the certainty of one who has already lived this nightmare that this is how she dies. 

He knows how this ends, just as he knows what comes next.

G’raha turns on his heel, plastering his back against the cold wall as he looks left and right. Soon a cat’s eye of black-and-purple aether will blossom a few yalms ahead of him; again he will react too slowly; again he will reach uselessly for the distant tower; again he will feel W’cheruh’s grip slacken as he takes the Miqo’te’s weight in his arms - 

“Not looking good, Raha. I think we might’ve bit off more than we can chew.”

He closes his eyes. Gods, no - not _him_. Not here. Not _now_.

“Think you can cover me if I make a run for it?”

G’raha’s eyes snap open. Vahl stands beside him dressed in his old warrior’s armour, his massive axe slung over one shoulder as he leans forward. There’s a glint in his bright eyes - a manic, excited look - and G’raha’s first reaction is to give in, to say yes, to go along with whatever mad plan Vahl’s concocted now - 

But Vahl wasn’t here! Vahl was dead - gone and buried - and W’cheruh…

“We’re teleporting,” G’raha says, grabbing hold of Vahl’s wrists. “Now.”

“Too late, little thief.” A taloned black glove slides across Vahl’s chest and pulls him backwards; the Warrior’s wrists are ripped out of G’raha’s grasp as the Hyur is suddenly dragged away, arms still outstretched. Emet-Selch’s red-masked form floats beside Vahl, his gloved hand still pressed possessively against the center of Vahl’s torso, and a toothy smirk blooms underneath the rim of his mask. “This one belongs to me.”

“No! No, you can’t have him!” G’raha raises his weapon only to realize the Allagan staff has been replaced by a simple, unadorned bow. His numb fingers fumble to knock a single arrow, to draw the stiff bowstring back, and as he attempts to aim he watches dark aether coil around the Ascian’s shoulders. Vahl stands mutely, his eyes unfocused - unseeing - and his armour slowly begins to shift. The heavy plates and bright furs become intricate metalwork and a long, purple cape; the horned helm becomes something simpler and dark; the axe stretches until it is an enormous greatsword flaring purple and red. 

“He’s a Warrior of Darkness now, thief,” Emet-Selch whispers, and even against the backdrop of battle G’raha has no difficulty hearing him. “He is already mine.”

Dark aether shimmers around Vahl - the same dark aether he’d called upon as they fought their way through Holminster Switch - and G’raha’s breath catches. He rushes forward, dropping his weapon as he reaches for Vahl’s shoulders - he needs to shake him, to snap him out of this, to make him deny this monster’s claims -

Vahl and the Ascian vanish into wisps of smoke just as G’raha reaches them. 

“Vahl!” 

G’raha flings his arms wide - his palm hits something heavy and a _crash_ echoes through his mind -

He opens his eyes.

Blue and gold walls loom over him. He lies on his belly, his pillow half under his chest and half under his head, and his left arm is still outstretched over the small nightstand to the side of his bed. He blinks stupidly at the sight - until he remembers the feel of something hard against his hand, followed by the sound of it breaking - and he scurries to see what he hit. 

A plain wooden picture frame lies face down on the hard crystal floor. Holding his breath, G’raha gingerly picks it up - and winces at the quiet tinkle of small shards of glass falling to the floor. The painting of himself and Vahl is unharmed, but it is now framed in sharp, jagged edges as a large hole gapes in the center of the clear glass. G’raha sets the old frame back atop his nightstand and covers his face with his hands. Dark magic for a dark knight. Not Ascian magic - G’raha has been in the presence of Ascians casting and it had feels _different_ , somehow. Something _more_ than whatever it is Vahl is doing. 

But perhaps that is simply scale. Vahl is working small, personal magicks - how is G’raha to know the difference? What if they truly are the same and he is deluding himself? 

What is a dark knight, really? And what had happened to Vahl to make him into one?

*

G’raha’s feet lead him towards his Ocular at a ridiculously early hour. The sun has barely begun to rise as he staggers inside, yawning wide as he forces himself to focus on facts. His books in the Umbilicus might hold a few of the answers, or at least a place to start, and he would rather begin as early as he can.

Emet-Selch’s presence destroys every half-formed plan in his quickly-wakening head.

G’raha allows the door to close behind him. The Ascian’s back is to him as he stares into the crystal mirror against the far wall; figures move upon it, though G’raha cannot make out who they might be.

“You are rather early,” the Ascian says. A gentle wiggle of his fingers dispels the scene on the mirror, and he turns to face G’raha with a look of mild annoyance. “I had a mind to borrow your plaything.”

“My -” G’raha cuts himself off. Founder of Garlemald. Founder of Allag. It should come as no surprise that he would know how to work Syrcus Tower. “It is customary to ask first.”

Emet-Selch’s eyes narrow. G’raha remembers a different day, on a different shard, when a masked figure snarled, “Allag was _mine_ ,” and has to clasp his hands together to stop them shaking.

Gods, gods, gods. He must be more careful. He must do everything he can to walk the line so far as this creature is concerned.

He must not give away all that he knows. 

“What now?” he asks. “Should I ready my weapon?”

The Ascian clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Distasteful. I said what I meant and I meant what I said: I am here to work towards compromise. I will speak with the Warrior of Light when he arrives, and together we will venture to his next destination.” He tilts his head to one side and smiles. “He _is_ hunting Lightwardens, is he not?”

“I expect you have a mind to stop him?”

“Not at all. I am content to watch.” He glides down the stairs, slouching so severely that his gloved hands dangle in front of his thighs. “Go on. Lest you fear I tampered with your beloved tower, test it. I assure you I will leave you be.”

“I would know if you changed it,” G’raha says, moving sideways towards his dais, never taking his eyes off the bored-looking figure.

“Would you?” Emet-Selch again narrows his eyes. “Fascinating.” He stops when he reaches the door to the Umbilicus, and G’raha has a moment’s panic that he will force open the door and proceed within - revealing the dozens of books native the Source, G’raha’s own journals, and other evidence that will quickly give the game away - but instead the Ascian leans against the crystal wall. He rests one ankle over the other and crosses his arms over his chest. “So - Exarch. Or do you prefer Crystal Exarch? _The_ Crystal Exarch?”

Emet-Selch on the Source had only called him _thief_ \- it is a small improvement to be given a choice of titles. “Exarch is perfectly fine.”

“Exarch, then. You are an enigma, are you not? A mystery plucked from the heavens, descended here upon the First just in time to uproot centuries of planning. We were content to leave you alone, you know. Strange and unexpected as your first appearance may have been, we had no reason to suspect you would become a thorn in our side.” He closes his eyes. “And then you had to go and kill a Lightwarden. An unfortunate choice.”

“An inevitable choice,” G’raha counters. “For any who desire to save this world.”

“ _Boring_ ,” Emet-Selch sighs. “Why not allow a fragment of chaos to do as it pleases? Why not permit Light to consume this world and see what follows? You cannot know that you will dislike the end result.”

G’raha’s lip curls into a snarl. The end result is death, and destruction, and the complete annihilation of a world - as this creature no doubt guesses. “I am quite sure I will.”

The Ascian shrugs. “Postulate all you want - you have already tampered with the plan I laboured over. A new path forward becomes a necessity - and here we have the Warrior of Light and his trusty Scions, ready to help you in your plot to save a world. Curious magic, that - crossing the rift has long been a feat only dragons and Ascians could master.” Emet-Selch waves a hand to the chamber walls. “Allagans dabbled, of course, but we never let them go too far. To find you here, in an Allagan tower wielding Allagan magic, is a mystery fit for the ages.”

“Consider me pleased to provide you such a measure of entertainment.”

“I do love puzzles,” Emet-Selch whispers, his voice lowering as his eyes snap open. “Though I prefer to be holding all the pieces before I begin my work. I don’t imagine you will answer any of my questions?”

“I don’t imagine you will leave us alone and allow our plans to succeed?”

The Ascian snorts and pushes himself off of the wall. “Ah, look - an impasse. You followers of Hydaelyn are far too predictable.” He settles into his familiar slouch. “We have company.”

G’raha’s gaze snaps to the Ocular door a moment before someone knocks on the other side. He glances back at Emet-Selch, who regards him with a look of deepest boredom, before turning his attention to the door. “Enter!”

The Scions step within - or they begin to. The moment they glimpse Emet-Selch the twins halt, causing the elder Scions to run into them. It is a slow, anxious entrance into the room as each of them fans out along the wall, all eying their unexpected guest, and G’raha sucks his teeth in frustration. 

This is not going to go as he hoped.

“We have a - visitor,” G’raha says quietly. He looks to Thancred. “Where is Vahl?”

“Overslept,” the Hume says shortly. “On his way.”

“Wonderful.” The silence drags; G’raha doesn’t fidget but he can sense the anger building in the Scions as they glare at the dark-haired figure in front of them. Emet-Selch looks supremely bored - as if this were a meeting he would rather not attend, rather than one he forced his way in to - and something about the glazed, sleepy look in his eyes makes G’raha want to cast a shield around himself. “I trust you all slept well?”

Scattered nods; Thancred only crosses his arms as he glares at their guest. Silence surrounds them again, filling the room with an awkward tension so palpable G’raha hesitates to even move. It feels like years - like an eternity - before another knock sounds at the door, and he eagerly calls, “Enter, please!”

Vahl looks rested - and happily oblivious - as he enters the Ocular, but the moment he notices his companions’ demeanor he narrows his eyes. His stare takes on a feral hint as he glimpses Emet-Selch; the Ascian turns to him as if he is the only person in the room.

“Ah, the Warrior of Light finally wakes. A pleasure, of course.” He gives the simplest, smallest of bows. “Please - speak as though I am not even here. I am an observer, not a meddler.” He glances behind him towards G’raha. “As many questions as I may have, there are other matters that concern me more.”

“You expect us to treat you as though you are not a Herald of Darkness?” Thancred’s eyes are dark under his furrowed brow. “You expect us to ignore the travesties committed by you and yours?”

The Ascian tilts his head to look Thancred up and down. “I believe you have a more personal history concerning the travesties committed by ‘me and mine’, do you not? I’m surprised you survived the experience.” Thancred’s face flushes purple, but the Ascian’s attention moves on before he can make a retort. “Continue with your plot to destroy the Lightwardens. Find them and destroy them - you will be quick to discover that I will raise nary a finger to stop you. I am here merely to watch.”

“For what purpose?”

Emet-Selch’s gaze returns to Vahl. “To measure your worth, of course.” Eyes widen in confusion; the twins exchange looks; even Thancred appears unsettled as the Ascian continues, “You are an Ascian-slayer, are you not? To engage you as my compatriots did would be foolish - suicidal, even - but if you prove yourself capable I will have no choice but to reconsider. Allies, rather than enemies.”

The Scions are silent, but none of them look eager to take him up on his offer. Vahl crosses his arms over his chest, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed as he meets the creature’s stare. The Ascian finally shrugs, just as lazy and languid as ever. 

“Let no man say I did not make an attempt,” he sighs. “But, lest you fear for the future, I will not rescind my offer. Cooperation may be the only path forward that does not end in annihilation - and I do encourage you to give it some consideration. We cannot continue to make these same mistakes time and time again, dear Warrior.”

“And you would offer counsel?” Vahl snorts. “I am not so trusting as I once was.”

“I have no reason to lie to you. Lahabrea lied, and Nabriales issued challenges, and Igeyorhm gave her all - and where are they now?” He gestures wide. “Gone, of course - laid to waste by yourself and your companions. But you must consider - you are not the only Warrior of Light to have walked the shards. Where are the rest, hero? Did they miss the message? Did they retreat to nurse their wounds?” He lowers his voice. “Warriors of Light do not die in bed. Surely you understand why.”

Though Vahl’s hands curl into fists, he makes no reply.

“Ah, well. I shall return to the shadows.” A voidgate opens to Emet-Selch’s right. “Do try to be interesting, won’t you? If I must watch, I would prefer to be entertained.” Without another word the Ascian steps into the shadowy aether and vanishes.

G’raha stares at the space where the voidgate had been, a sickly feeling in his stomach. To think he’d considered Ran’jit and Vauthry their greatest concern! To think he’d assumed the Ascians would leave them be! What a fool he has been!

“Flowery lies,” Thancred grumbles, his arms still crossed. “Rather better-spoken than our last Ascian, but I like this one even less.” He turns to look at Vahl, who hasn’t moved since Emet-Selch departed. “And you, my friend? What do you think of this?”

Vahl rubs his forehead. “Hard to say. He has every reason to lie, and none to tell the truth - and yet…”

Alphinaud cocks his head. “And yet?”

The Warrior of Light drops his hand with an angry shake of the head. “He - recognized me. Not as the Warrior of Light, but - I could see it in his eyes. A flicker of surprise.” He looks to G’raha. “I assume this changes nothing of our plans?”

“Correct,” G’raha replies. He likes nothing of this talk of ‘recognizing’; he steers his thoughts away from worry towards the next part of their plan. “Three Lightwardens wait for you, and we have no way of knowing where they might be.” He looks around to the rest of the Scions. “If you are not opposed, I would suggest we venture in smaller parties to each of the three remaining locales, in the hopes of covering more ground and establishing a location for the remaining Lightwardens. It may also confuse Emet-Selch: powerful as he may be, I do not believe him capable of following us all at once.”

“It is best if I make for Kholusia,” Alphinaud states. “My year here was spent forging connections and finding contacts, and now seems the perfect time to put those to use.”

“Likewise for myself and Amh Araeng,” Alisaie says, though she doesn’t look pleased to say it. “I shall see what I might uncover.”

“That leaveth the Greatwood for our small party,” Urianger announces, sounding pleased by the turn of events. “Where waits the last of our talented companions.”

“With any luck Y’shtola will already have done our work for us,” Thancred mutters. “Is she aware Vahl has arrived?”

“Ah.” G’raha rubs at his wrist anxiously as their attention returns to him. “We are - not the best of companions, I must admit. She has not accepted my missives -”

“Then I shall visit her myself,” Vahl announces, thankfully ending G’raha’s embarrassment. “I am eager to see this place.” He gives G’raha a thoughtful look. “Would you be inclined to join us?”

How long had he waited to hear those words? To be invited upon an adventure with the love he thought lost? His heart soars and falls within seconds, and he forces himself to shake his head. “Alas - there remains work to be done here and abroad. Vauthry has requested my presence in Eulmore.”

All of the Scions step forward, shock and alarm obvious on every face. “You do not seriously mean to take him up on that!” Alisaie exclaims. 

“I do,” he says calmly. “But not quite as he thinks I will.” He forces himself to smile, though the idea of Vahl’s invitation weighs heavy on him. “Please - do not worry for me. Consider only your own paths, and I will consider mine.” He looks to the twins. “Would you mind if I travelled with you as far as eastern Kholusia?”

“Not in the least,” Alphinaud replies. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Then our plans are set before us.” G’raha smiles at every Scion in turn, but his gaze lingers the longest on Vahl. “Good luck.”

The Scions filter out one-by-one, until all but Vahl has left.

“I’ll catch up with you,” he says, waving Thancred on, and then the door closes behind him. “What do you know of the Virtue Hunters down in the Wandering Stairs?”

G’raha rests one knuckle against his chin as he dredges up what information he can recall. The title is familiar, though he cannot say much more than that. “Very little. They hunt the Cardinal Virtues, if I remember correctly - the eaters who have taken the forms of Ardbert’s old companions. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve fallen in with one of them,” Vahl explains. “A dark knight named Granson. He put me through a bit of a test after we returned from Holminster Switch, and now he’s requested aid in Kholusia. If we have some time to spare I’ll borrow an amaro and see what I might do to help.” His eyes harden. “The Cardinal Virtues were once Warriors of Light. It is not right for them to wander the First as agents of destruction.”

“I agree,” G’raha says. The Virtues are little more than rumours, but having Vahl look into this mystery can only aid their fight against the Light. “I believe you have more than enough time for a trip west - so long as you avoid Eulmore, of course.”

“Would you mind if I flew out with you and Alphinaud?”

G’raha almost laughs. “Mind? Oh, no - no, no! Never would I mind the presence of -” He stops himself, suddenly aware he wanders far too close to a type of flattery he cannot be sure Vahl will appreciate. “Please - we would enjoy your company.”

“Then I’ll meet you at the Amaro Launch.” 

*

They set out just before lunch; the sun is already high in the sky as they make their way west. Alphinaud leads - eager as any youth might be for a chance for flight - while G’raha and Vahl follow behind. It is not a long flight - and is rendered even shorter because they will not be going directly to Eulmore - but G’raha treasures the chance.

The pressure from the tower’s distance hits him not long after they leave Lakeland’s western border. Having never ventured so far during his time on the First it is a shock to feel that hated lethargy come over him once again; there is a moment where he droops forward on his mount, gasping for breath, but as he adjusts to the lack of his tower he slowly rights himself.

Vahl, frowning at the enormous cloudbank of Light aether ahead of them, does not notice.

It is better that he doesn’t know. It is better that no one knows - that any weakness be kept secret, lest it become a liability someone might exploit. Not that G’raha believes _Vahl_ would do such a thing, but there is no telling when that damned Ascian might be watching.

Vahl splits off from them over Stilltide, continuing west while G’raha and Alphinaud begin to circle downwards to land. The winds are too loud to speak to each other, but they wave as they part - and then Vahl is gone, receding into the Light-filled sky over Kholusia.

“I have a question for you,” G’raha says once he and the boy have dismounted outside the small, plain village. His joy at finally moving beyond Lakeland is buried beneath worry and that damned dream from this morning; he cannot focus on this new adventure when his thoughts continue to pull him back to Vahl’s mysteries. “It is a somewhat delicate question, and I can understand why you would hesitate to answer it, but I am unsure who else to ask.”

“You are doing everything you can to save two worlds,” Alphinaud says as he ties his amaro’s reins to a nearby post. “The least I can do is provide a single answer.”

“How did Vahl become a dark knight?”

Alphinaud’s hands freeze. There is a moment of complete stillness that goes on, and on, and on, until finally the boy slouches forward. “Have you asked him?”

“He says he doesn’t remember.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Alphinaud finishes securing his mount and then turns around, a pinched, strange expression on his face. “Shortly after arriving in Ishgard - within days, if I remember correctly. A heretic failed his trial-by-combat and the body was dumped in the Brume. The guards overseeing it neglected to confiscate the man’s soul crystal, and Vahl, being the curious soul he is…”

“Picking up a soul crystal does not damage the new soul,” G’raha argues. “What was wrong with Vahl touching it?”

Alphinaud shakes his head. “Your guess is as good as mine. I wasn’t aware anything was amiss until we received word that he’d killed a garrison of knights within Ishgard’s Sacred Tribunal.”

G’raha’s heart stills. “He did what?”

“According to reports they were - not very nice knights,” Alphinaud says, somewhat unhelpfully. “And he didn’t kill _all_ of them. Just - just most of them.”

“He never explained himself?”

“As I understand it, someone asked for help and Vahl intervened - but when all was said and done his retelling of the attack didn’t match witnesses’ accounts, and the entire matter was quietly dropped when the Temple Knights’ true actions came to light.” The boy crosses his arms and stares at the ground. “He’d been changing, you see. Even before that - before we escaped Ul’dah, before the betrayal, before we lost Moenbryda. He’s never been quite the same as he was when we first met.”

“And the incident with the Temple Knights - it never happened again?”

Alphinaud looks up. “Not that I heard of, but - but he would have told me if it did. I’m certain of it.”

G’raha is not reassured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 150k and they're _still_ not kissing! Big oof.
> 
> Have a wonderful New Year! Whether you’re in lockdown (like me!) or out and about, I hope 2021 is a far better year than the previous one!


	49. Keeping One's Enemies Close

With Alphinaud’s assistance G’raha finds a place to hide away in Gatetown: while calling the small room a closet might have been generous, it is at least private and wide enough for him to sit in. The sounds coming through the thin walls pull his attention outside - a child laughing while older voices murmur low, meaningless conversation; birds calling from the cliffs; the distant sound of waves breaking against the shore below them. Wind forces its way through the gaps in the walls, chilling the inside of the hut and raising little bumps all over G’raha’s skin. The ground beneath him is cold and hard; he shifts, attempting to find a comfortable position, and grits his teeth as his body protests. 

Some days he manages to forget how old he truly is. Today is not one of those days.

To give himself some credit, he would not feel quite so strained were he within reach of his tower. Kholusia is close enough that he can sense it, ever-present and awaiting his return; he has a sneaking suspicion that, if he truly tried, he could force a connection even from this distance. He files that information away for later - though he knows not how it will ever come in handy - and closes his eyes.

An invitation to Eulmore is not lightly accepted; it is not easily ignored, either. G’raha _must_ speak with Vauthry.

Luckily for him he need not step within the city to do so.

G’raha hasn’t had much practice with this particular spell. He hasn’t _needed_ much practice with it, and - though he would never admit this - he is not entirely comfortable with it being in his repertoire. Creating a simulacrum of oneself is an Ascian trick: his hands feel dirty before he even begins to shift and shape the aether within him. Telling himself it is a necessary precaution does little to calm his nerves, but at the very least he is able to complete the spell without faltering.

He opens his eyes to a disorienting experience: he is standing in the small hut, his Allagan staff in his crystal hand, but seated in front of him is _himself_. His true body sits motionless, his palms open on both knees and his face hidden in shadow. G’raha kneels in front of the small, cloaked figure, eyes straying over the blue crystal that continues to consume his flesh. It has been a long, long time since he thought to truly look at what he has become.

No wonder Vahl has never recognized him. Is he still more man than tower? More Mystel than crystal?

Or is he losing even that?

G’raha rises, leaving his true body behind, and exits the hut to make his way through Gatetown.

He tries not to stare. Having walked through Tailfeather, the remnants of Ala Mhigo, and even Eight Sentinels G’raha has seen his fair share of poverty, but none of those places had ever-prosperous Eulmore in the background. There is something strangely unsettling about walking through slums when the exact opposite is clearly visible - and severely out of reach.

He doesn’t make it far before two women block his path. They both wear strange renditions of jesters’ outfits; the colours remind him of Garlemald, though they are an entire rift away from the Reds and the Blues, and he has to take a moment to really _see_ them beyond their colourful motley.

“The Crystal Exarch, come to play in our city!” The red jester claps her hands together, lifting one foot behind her in a show of childish glee, while the blue jester gives him a mocking salute. “Follow us, please! Eulmore’s a topsy-turvy place when you don’t know where you’re going!”

“Thank you.” Though it is less an invitation and more an order, G’raha has no issue going along with the charade. He has nothing to lose by following them - and his curiosity is piqued. 

Gatetown’s drab brown and grey shelters crowd the road right up to the base of the tall, richly-decorated structure that is Eulmore. A collection of purple-armoured soldiers stand at the enormous front gates; a smaller door within the wood itself allows them entrance. Had G’raha not spent nearly a century living within the finest space Allag had ever built he would no doubt have been amazed by the ostentatious decor - but he cannot help but find it wasteful. The drapes, the flowers, the polished floors - as ornate and well-made as they all are, when taken as a whole they do little more than demand attention without any attempt at coherence. The narrow stairway the jesters lead him to is at least more contained: simple stone guides them up, up, up, and G’raha finally has a moment free from the assault on his senses that had been the first floor.

Vauthry’s invitation hadn’t hinted at the purpose behind this strange meeting, but G’raha has a few guesses. Top of his list involves threats and even the possibility of harm following his actions in Laxan Loft, though he hopes it will not come to that; if he is lucky this might be a formal apology, though he is not overly optimistic on that front. Even though it has been years since they spoke face-to-face G’raha cannot imagine the man he met ever uttering the words “I am sorry”, no matter the circumstances.

A small, fearful part of him expects to see the Ascian waiting in the shadows.

It is still nothing more than a suspicion. Emet-Selch is on the First, yes, and has admitted to having a plan that is coming undone, but there is still no evidence to connect the Ascian to Eulmore. The city twisted, for reasons G’raha knows not, and it is presumptuous of him to assume every negative thing to occur is the fault of Ascians.

Though he must admit it is not without precedent…

The staircase opens up to a room just as decadent as the main floor. Merchants sell their wares on a ring around the outer wall while citizens eat at the large, well-stocked bar; a boisterous, painfully-jovial melody carries throughout the room. This is so far removed from the poverty and suffering in Gatetown as to be another realm entirely.

There is a part of G’raha that is furious at the divide, but he is also aware the people living in Gatetown are there by choice. There are plenty of villages in Kholusia that would be more than willing to take them in, not to say a word of the Crystarium were anyone willing to make the journey - but the people who reside below Eulmore aspire to a lofty life of luxuries, and whether blind to the lottery or driven mad by temptation they have decided nothing matters quite like Eulmore. 

“Follow us, Exarch.” The jesters speak in unison, both gesturing to a hallway leading to a gold-rimmed elevator. Eulmore’s citizens are quick to notice him; they are not careful to keep their conversations quiet as they watch him cross the upper floor.

“That’s not - it can’t be -”

“- thought he never left his pretty tower?”

“- can’t seriously think to threaten _us_ , can he? Not Eulmore, not after -”

“I _told_ you it was all a misunderstanding, didn’t I, dearest! Kholusia and Lakeland would never go to war!”

G’raha bites his tongue. He allows himself to be led onto the elevator, flanked on either side by the red and blue women, and then the doors close with a quiet _clink_. The ridiculous music follows them up, making for a strange, uncomfortable minute before the lift finally comes to a stop and the doors open.

Eaters. More than he’d expected - more than he’d hoped to find - ring the room. They laze on couches or perch on high pillars, while the largest - an enormous, crowned lion - rests behind Vauthry himself.

The one and only time Vauthry and G’raha had met is a distant memory, a recollection G’raha had not deemed important enough at the time to pay much attention to. Vauthry-the-youth had been on a tour of Norvrandt following his inauguration; to G’raha’s distracted attention he had seemed spoiled and self-centered, but otherwise painfully normal. G’raha had dismissed him almost as quickly as he met him, imagining him to be as short-lived and as inconsequential to his own plans as the boy’s father had been.

And here he is walking before Vauthry-the-man, with nothing on his side but the knowledge the Crystarium will not stand for what he sees before him. To dine with sin eaters? To do business lying against them? To invite them into house and home?

Never.

“This is the Exarch then, hmm?” Vauthry leans forward on his dais, narrowing his eyes as G’raha approaches.

“Greetings, Lord Vauthry.” G’raha decides against bowing - they are of equal rank, and it is clear the other man has no intentions of paying any attention to protocol. “It has been quite some time since last we spoke. Eulmore is hardly recognizable.”

“The world is hardly recognizable,” Vauthry says dismissively, waving a large, ringed hand. “Time moves on, whether you are in your tower or not. Norvrandt proceeds ever closer to its final days.”

G’raha pointedly switches his attention to the eaters around the room. “Is that why you have taken up with these creatures? Out of desperation?”

“ _Desperation_! Oh, do not make me laugh!” Vauthry sounds anything but amused; his face twists into a mask of disgust. “We have allied with these fine beings because to fight is to provide persistent employment for gravediggers. There is no need for it, Exarch, and your people will soon come to realize the same. This is a battle we cannot win.”

“Respectfully, ser, my people disagree.”

The man’s chin sinks into his chest even as his small eyes narrow. His voice drops to nearly a whisper. “Oh, I am quite aware of what _your_ people think. Killing Lightwardens, is it? Welcoming a Warrior of Darkness? Killing _my_ men - _my_ people! - and kidnapping a child we have long cared for out of the goodness of our hearts? You will find I am not at all impressed by _your people_ , Exarch, no, not at all.” One hand reaches to the lion, caressing its sickly pale flank with a fondness that is immediately revolting. “I will say this only once: if you intend to follow this path Eulmore will have no choice but to stand against you.”

“‘This path’?” G’raha repeats. “By that do you mean the slaying of Lightwardens and the saving of our world?”

“Presumptuous! You cannot know the path you walk results in anything of the sort! You are leading your people to devastation and ruin, while I -” Vauthry’s voice becomes soft and high-pitched, almost ethereal as he presses his other hand against his chest. “ _I_ will lead mine to salvation.”

“Lord Vauthry -”

“No. I fear you are blinded, my dear Exarch, by this foolish, mistaken hope. People do not _want_ the world to be saved, you see - they would much prefer to live in comfort until the end of their days! They do not care for the plight of their fellow man so long as they have good food, expensive wine, and earthly pleasures to keep them entertained!”

G’raha ducks his head. It is a difficult accusation to hear, especially after fighting for these people for so, so long - but there is not a single drop of doubt in his heart. Had Eight Sentinels not committed their entire lives to the salvation of a world they would never live to see? Had the people he saved over ninety years ago not bartered and begged to work with him, that their children would live and grow in a city free from eaters? Is the Crystarium not living proof that hope flourishes even now?

“Believe me a deluded fool if you wish,” G’raha says quietly, raising his chin defiantly as Vauthry’s eyes flash. “But I know my people. I know they look to the future - to their children’s future, and their children’s children, and on and on. I have witnessed firsthand how much a person is willing to give - and I am reassured, Lord Vauthry, by their selfless actions and kind hearts. Eulmore is but a gilded cage, and I will not allow similar bars to enclose upon my city.”

Vauthry’s hand curls through the mane of his lion, tightening in the creature’s ivory fur as his eyes widen. “You will not punish the villains hunting my sin eaters?”

“I am not likely to punish myself.”

Fury flares in the man’s blue eyes. “You dare - you _dare_!” He points at G’raha with one ridiculously-jewelled hand, his finger shaking with rage. “Predictable fool! While you blabber about hope and the goodness of man’s heart, I have set my men on the hunt for your damn companions! Warriors of Darkness - villains of Norvrandt - murderers of my allies! Ran’jit will destroy every last one of them! And _you_ \- you will answer for the damage you have caused!” Purple aether flares around one of the man’s hands, circling and twisting between his fingers and rings, and G’raha steps back in surprise. Vauthry is no mage - has never once advertised himself as such - yet whence comes this power…?

He cannot sense it, locked in his shadow as he is; whether the man draws power from himself, a soul stone, or some other means of magic he cannot tell. The blast of aether catches his shadow straight in the chest - there is a moment of shock and darkness, followed by the disorienting sensation of _command_ , of _control_ , of _forced reverence_ \- and before G’raha can draw a full breath he is back in his body, seated in the small hut in Gatetown.

“Gods,” he murmurs, holding his hands out over his lap. His fingers shake and he brings them close against his chest. “Gods, how did Vauthry learn how to do _that_?” His mind is his own, but he knows that he would have been susceptible to whatever manner of magic Vauthry happens to control had he gone in person. For now he is safe, but -

Ran’jit is moving towards Rak’tika. If Vahl finished his business in Wright he would only have been in the Greatwood for a few hours at best.

G’raha must return to the Crystarium.

*

“There is little we can do to distract him.”

“I am aware of that,” G’raha says quietly. He looks around to Lyna and her lieutenants, gathered along the walls of his small Ocular, and can’t help worrying for whatever may come. “And I hesitate to ask you to risk yourselves when it is so clear that Eulmore’s attention is drawn further east - but the Night’s Blessed are our neighbours. To allow Ran’jit passage without warning them of what comes would be a gross betrayal of the bonds we have forged.”

“You assume we can _find_ the Blessed,” one of the lieutenants says with a snort. “Since Fort Gohn fell it’s been damned difficult to find any hint of them - they’ve no interest in us, not anymore.”

G’raha bites his tongue. No one is aware that it is _his_ fault - that Y’shtola cut off all contact with him and the Crystarium after the Blessed lost their home - and now does not seem the time for that type of honesty.

“I can send scouts to eastern Lakeland,” Lyna says grudgingly. “They will do little to stop him, but they can at least alert us to his progress east.”

“That is enough for now,” G’raha says graciously. “Thank you.”

The lieutenants filter out one at a time until only he and Lyna are left. She waits until the door closes before taking a few careful steps towards him; her face is unreadable.

“You left Lakeland this morning.”

“Ah.” 

“You promised me you’d tell me if you were going to risk yourself again.”

He flushes. “Lyna -”

She holds up a hand. “I am pleased to see you have returned safely, my lord. In the future I would request that you notify me as to your adventures _before_ departure?”

“Certainly,” he replies meekly. He is quite aware her displeasure runs far deeper than she allows him to see, but this is a hurt he does not have time to deal with properly - not now, at least. “If it is any consolation there was no risk of harm to myself.”

She merely arches an eyebrow. Her salute is faster than usual - and she leaves the Ocular without another word.

G’raha barely has time to sigh before a voidgate blooms where Lyna had just stood. He stares forlornly at the dark cloud of aether - while briefly considering teleporting elsewhere before his guest arrives - but makes no move to hide his disappointment as Emet-Selch manifests in front of him.

“My dear Exarch.” The Ascian slouches. “You have been busy today, haven’t you?”

“I am busy most days of late,” he returns. “Should you not be in the Greatwood?”

Emet-Selch lazily flaps a gloved hand over his shoulder. “Oh, I was, but it was dreadfully dull. Work progresses, as is its wont when mortal souls band together, but I had a mind to take a nap.”

“Indeed? Not here, surely.”

He rolls his eyes. “And burden you any further? Rest your worried hands, enigma - I merely thought I might pop in to give you a progress report. Seeing as I am an ally -” He bows low, fluttering his fingers ridiculously as he does, “- I thought it best I save you the effort.” Upon rising to his full height his bored golden eyes meet G’raha’s. “Might we create a trade, of sorts? My information for your own? I have so many questions, you see, and you are in the fortunate position of holding the answers.”

“You expect me to barter with a creature of Darkness?”

“You ask enough of your _Warrior_ of Darkness,” Emet-Selch murmurs. “Why not ask the same of its Herald?”

G’raha looks away. He wants nothing to do with this monster, but he must admit there is much that could be gained by enduring his foul presence for even a little while longer. “What information do you have?”

“The Night’s Blessed have taken up in Slitherbough. Y’shtola has Vahl running errands throughout the western half of the Greatwood, but I presume they will eventually lead to some information of value.” Emet-Selch smirks. “He likes following orders, doesn’t he?”

G’raha’s eyes glaze over. He focuses on breathing, on his own heartbeat, on the staff in his hand and the darkness of his hood, and only once he feels completely in control does he speak. “What information would you have in return?”

“How did you copy the Crystal Tower?”

“It is no copy.” He looks up at the blue walls surrounding them, allowing himself a small smile at the simple question - a wasted question, thankfully, and one he need not answer dishonestly. “This is Syrcus Tower in its entirety.” He again meets the Ascian’s gaze, watching the man’s eyes narrow. “Do you disapprove of the puzzle I have left before you?”

“Not at all,” Emet-Selch replies mildly. “It gives me something to mull over while your brute is traipsing through bogs.” He brushes invisible dirt off the front of his elaborate, gaudy robes while a small smile plays at the corner of his lips. “You don’t like me, do you, Exarch?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Just a touch. Vahl and the Scions have plenty of reasons to dislike my kind, but you, dear enigma, continue to confuse me.”

“I expect you shall grow accustomed to that feeling.” G’raha turns back to his mirror. “If you have nothing else, Ascian, please feel free to make your exit. I have work to do.”

There are a few moments of silence, in which G’raha’s hand tightens around his staff - but Emet-Selch simply snorts before conjuring a voidgate. Within moments G’raha is alone in his quiet Ocular.

“My _brute_?” G’raha repeats, curling his lip in disgust. “You underestimate him, Ascian. As you underestimate me.” Tapping his staff against the crystal floor engages the locks on both his Ocular and Umbilicus doors, and G’raha pulls on the tower’s aether to teleport himself within the smaller room. He cannot be sure that the Ascian will not overpower his locks, but if he intends to keep up his polite charade he will at least be forced to knock.

Leaning his staff against the wall and pushing his hood back from his head, G’raha dives into the multitude of books around him, pulling out every copy that might have any information on dark magic or Ascians, and settles down to read - 

Only to very quickly give in to the lethargy that suddenly comes upon him, unbidden and unexpected, and as his chin droops forward he at least has enough sense to drop his book onto his lap rather than the floor.

Later - _later_ he can read. For now he might have the smallest of naps…


	50. Eat Them All the Same

G’raha sits within his Umbilicus, legs curled underneath him as he rests on the blue-and-gold floor. Books spiral outwards around him, some stacked in teetering piles and others open to old, faded pages. Sheets of vellum scrawled with his own writing lay interspersed between the texts; most are densely-packed with perfect - if cramped - notes, while the rest have single words scrawled across them. Thoughts and ideas and questions - so many damned questions - and still - 

He gnaws his lip, staring at the latest text he’d lost himself in. He’d borrowed it from Travyrs’s collection: though it is nearly a century old the paintings are still vibrant; the inks still true to colour; he does not have to use his imagination to complete the figure depicted on the pages before him.

“A coincidence…?” he murmurs, trailing one finger over the delicate page, over black, red, and purple ink. “Or something more?”

He doesn’t know, and there’s no one alive to ask. There is a very high chance he’s connecting dots that do not need to be connected, but at this point…

He sets the book down with a sigh. Mayhap other depictions of the Shadowkeeper survived the Flood. Mayhap he can cross-reference the colours used; mayhap artistic expression motivated the painter - inspired the nameless soul to use such vibrant reds and purple, particularly in the creature’s enormous weapon - but until he can find another depiction of this beast he must admit the magic it uses looks eerily similar to that which Vahl wields. And that’s saying nothing of the greatsword…

A distant knock on his Ocular door has him fumbling to stand; he realizes he has formed a barrier of books between himself and his Umbilicus door, and performs a delicate tiptoe dance to avoid stepping on anything he could not replace. Locking the Umbilicus behind him, he moves through the Ocular to crack open the door.

“Urianger!” He throws the door open, eyes darting behind the Elf for any glimpse of the rest of the Scions - and one Warrior of Light in particular. “This is unexpected! Come in, come in - have you run into problems in Rak’tika?”

“The opposite, thankfully.” The astrologian steps inside. He is alone, and his closed, serious expression does nothing for G’raha’s nerves. “I do but bringeth thee glad tidings: the Lightwarden of Rak’tika has been slain.”

“Truly? So quickly?” G’raha claps his hands together, nearly giving in to jubilation were it not for the sombre look the Elf continues to give him. “Was anyone hurt? How are the Night’s Blessed? The Eulmoran army?”

“That is a tale that requireth much time in the telling - yet there exists a matter far more pressing. A matter which concerneth thee and thy path forward.”

Joy is quickly replaced by a sharp burst of anxiety. “Indeed?” G’raha cannot decide what to do with his hands; the urge to twist his fingers about each other is distracting. He settles for cupping each elbow with the other hand as he crosses his arms. He doubts Urianger will go back on his word, but if he has found a flaw - or if Vahl has guessed the conclusion - 

“Two Lightwardens remain.” 

G’raha hesitantly nods. “One each in Amh Araeng and Kholusia.”

“The Light within Vahl does not diminish. Were he to taketh upon himself the power of two more Wardens, without relinquishing the Light already acquired and stored within, it would be at great risk to his soul.” Urianger crosses his arms and closes his eyes. “I have disliked thy plan from the very beginning. Tell me: be there truly no other option? Must this venture risk both thy soul and his own?”

“You know just as much as I do regarding the nature of aether - perhaps even more,” G’raha admits slowly. “Norvrandt lacks white auracite and we lack time. To improvise another method would require us halt our progress here and now - and with that Ascian meddling I am not inclined to delay.”

“Not even to save Vahl’s life?”

G’raha hesitates. _Could_ the Lightwardens’ aether smother Vahl’s soul? He has gambled everything on the Blessing of Light absorbing every mote of aether, but doing so assumes there is no limit to its power. Could his hypothesis have been wrong?

“Have you seen anything to lend weight to this worry?”

Urianger slowly shakes his head. “Nay, not I - though Y’shtola did not immediately recognize our longtime friend. Upon encountering our small party the Night’s Blessed were under the impression we were a heretofore unencountered breed of sin eater - an impression shared by none other than our dark sorceress. Thou art well-acquainted with her affinity for aether?”

“Of course,” G’raha murmurs. _Y’shtola_ had not recognized Vahl’s soul? Even when standing directly before him? He makes a mental note to speak with her - if she will allow him to - but he cannot wait to quell Urianger’s doubts. “I will consider alternatives, but there is not much time remaining. Whatever the risk might be, I believe we must carry on.”

Urianger inclines his head in acknowledgement, though he doesn’t look pleased. “That being the case, I shall follow mine companions to bed. All have made their successful return to the Crystarium, but the hour is late: we did deem it prudent to save our report for the morrow.” The Elf bows and opens the door.

“Urianger!” G’raha frowns as the astrologian stops upon the threshold. “I will do anything I can to save Vahl’s life. _Anything_.”

The man’s face softens. “Doubt festers not within my breast, Exarch. Thou wouldst hardly have come so far were thy goals not in line with ours.” He hesitates, seeming almost to war with himself, before softly adding, “Vahl would asketh me to steer thee from thy path, were he aware of it.”

“Will you?”

Urianger looks away. “To weigh one life against thousands - it is a heavy burden one carries, no matter the cause. It is a heavy burden I share with thee, though in the end it is not I who will pay the price.” He sighs. “Long have I laboured to formulate a second option - a method to save Norvrandt and thyself - yet I have failed to do so. Whatever my misgivings - and whatever Y’shtola might say - I can but accompany thee to the very end.” 

G’raha lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. “Thank you.”

The astrologian nods once more before quietly closing the Ocular door behind him, leaving G’raha alone with a new collection of doubts.

*

Noise wakes him from a dreamless sleep. He flails his way free of his covers as a blaring sound blasts its way through the entirety of the Crystarium; it takes G’raha a few frantic, scattered breaths to recognize the alarm for what it is, and another long moment to realize what it means.

Something approaches.

G’raha dresses quickly, dragging on yesterday’s robes before teleporting from his bedroom to the tower foyer. He thrusts a hand forward, using aether to throw wide the front doors, and his feet carry him downstairs as quickly as they can.

Dawn has barely begun to break behind the tower; dark clouds block what starlight might brighten Lakeland. From the Exedra he has no sign of what could have set off the alarms - but there is no doubt that the rest of the city is aware. Soldiers stream from the barracks heading west, running with weapons in hand through the Rotunda and onwards. Amaro fly overhead, creating patches of dark shadow as their riders zoom past, and what few citizens are out of doors at such an early hour flee frantically to safety. Upon seeing G’raha standing confused in the middle of the Exedra, some of the soldiers shout to him.

“Eaters, my lord!”

“Lakeland is under siege!”

“They descend upon the Ostall Imperative!”

“Where is the Captain?” he shouts back, turning in place as his eyes scan every corner, desperately seeking his white-eared Viis. 

“Marching west!”

“Damn it all.” He twists around, eyes on the sky as fear bubbles in his chest, when a familiar voice catches his attention.

“Exarch!” The Elf twins sprint towards him, Alphinaud in the lead. “What can we do?”

“I will need assistance activating the shield,” G’raha says, already moving back towards his tower. “There are a number of control panels ringed around the outer edges of the second level. If you and Alisaie do not mind running -”

“Already on it!” Alisaie shouts, sprinting in the direction of the Pendants. “Alphinaud! Hurry up!”

“By the Twelve,” the boy mutters, but he takes off after his sister without looking back.

Sin eaters in Lakeland! Without a Lightwarden to lead them! It shouldn’t be possible! It isn’t something G’raha even _considered_! Eaters are mindless creatures driven by base instincts - to form a swarm on their own is unheard of! 

“Where is that blasted Ascian now?” Not wanting to alarm his people by suddenly vanishing in the Exedra, he dashes back up the staircase. Again G’raha uses aether to slam open his tower doors; he flips his hand behind him, closing them with a _boom_ that echoes up the enormous staircase. Without hesitation he teleports himself to his Ocular, moving immediately to his crystal mirror, and orients it towards the various control panels spread across the Crystarium. 

The twins are already in place, having activated two of the panels, and they have also recruited Vahl. His is the last panel to join the array of tech flaring at the edges of G’raha’s consciousness; the moment G’raha sees the magitek lights brighten he closes his eyes. His staff taps against the floor; the pure chime of sound echoes around him as Syrcus Tower answers his summons. Power flares through each of the control panels as the magitek activates; the shield expands upwards, crystallizing up and up and up as aether and tech merge and combine. 

G’raha opens his eyes as he feels the shield snap shut. It is not a moment too soon: a horde of white bodies descends upon them. The eaters fling themselves at his shield relentlessly, battering their pale bodies against the scintillating magic over and over in a desperate attempt to force their way through. Beyond it he can see more eaters taking to the field throughout Lakeland, engaging against soldiers garbed in familiar Crystarium colours, and his heart leaps into his throat as he watches Vahl and the twins enter the fray.

Time is a luxury he does not have, and he cannot afford to witness this mess from the safety of his Ocular. Disregarding the risk, he teleports directly to the courtyard before his tower. Already the dark clouds he'd seen have covered the entire sky; he can smell rain on the wind. Spagyrics is a flurry of activity as healers prepare for what will no doubt be an influx of wounded; soldiers dash to their posts or towards the Rotunda. G’raha spots one of Lyna’s lieutenants in Ballistics and makes directly towards her.

“My lord!” The Galdjent salutes him, turning from the trio of soldiers she’d been giving orders to. “The Captain leads a battalion of our forces west! Two main forces of eaters have invaded Lakeland - we are dealing with one here at the Crystarium while the other throws itself against the Imperative!”

“And Radisca’s Round? Fort Jobb? The rest of Lakeland?”

“Overrun!” She shakes her head, her eyes wide underneath her heavy helm. “We’re doing what we can - your friends have joined our forces in the west!”

“All of them?”

“Yes, my lord! Even the Oracle of Light has taken to the field!”

G’raha bites his lip. He wants to go - gods, does he want to be there! To march with Vahl; to fight with him and his friends; to witness this turning of the tide - 

But they do not need him. If the Scions are in the west the Imperative is as good as saved, while Lakeland’s eastern settlements are still at risk.

“Who holds the Accensor Gate?”

“Lieutenant Franard! He sent a message not twenty minutes past, my lord - something about the swarm heading to Fort Jobb, and we’re stretched thin as it is -”

“I’ll take care of Fort Jobb.” G’raha salutes her and, again throwing all caution to the wind, teleports without another word.

Rain soaks him the moment he appears at the settlement. Lightning flares across the sky - once, twice, thrice - and earthshaking blasts of thunder follow moments later. Through the downpour and constant rumble G’raha can hear others fighting - metal against metal, squeals and cries, moans and grunts from those already-wounded.

Too many battlefields - too many scenes just like this one. Ishgard and Falcon’s Nest; Eight Sentinels and Revenant’s Toll; the night Voeburt fell; their doomed fight against the Lightwarden five years earlier; watching the destruction of Fort Gohn and knowing - without a seed of doubt - that nothing he could do would reach them in time -

“Exarch! Didn’t see you there!”

He looks to the side. A Crystarium soldier wearing the mantle of lieutenant salutes him as he runs past, heading south to a mob of white-bodied creatures.

“Bjorn holds the west road!” The Hume gestures in a general, westward direction. “Aid him as best you can - we can handle these!” As he speaks he draws his blade and charges into the fray, joining the blue-caped soldiers already pushing back against the scuttling, scurrying bodies of lesser eaters.

The west road is a frenzy of activity: the merchants’ stalls are shuttered and empty as more soldiers battle lesser eaters. G’raha watches as a white bear lumber out of the curtains of rain to take two swipes at the nearest soldier; the woman falls without a sound, her daggers tumbling to the ground as the eater rages past her. A Ronso sprints past G’raha before he can react; the monk slams his fists into the bear’s pale belly with a roar that overpowers even the creature’s cry of pain. G’raha spins in mid-air, unleashing a storm of bright aether against the eater as the Ronso continues to pummel its tender flank, and within moments the creature tips over backwards with a mournful wail. 

“Good to have you!” The Ronso salutes him with weapons still drawn. “Please tell me you bring fair tidings!”

“I bring myself,” he returns grimly, sending a wisp of aether towards the fallen soldier - and grimacing when he realizes she is already beyond his powers. “Lakeland is overrun. I will do all I can to help you here. Bjorn?”

“Aye, my lord!” The Ronso looks around them, to the dozens of soldiers holding the line, and grits his teeth. “We’d hoped - the Warrior of Darkness, sir, they said -”

“The Warrior of Darkness holds the Ostall Imperative,” G’raha interrupts, making a decision he hopes he will not come to regret. Bjorn’s eyes light up, and several of the nearby soldiers’ postures shift as they overhear him, but what matters now is not saving Vahl from unwanted attention: what matters now is hope at any cost. “We _must_ buy him time.”

“You hear that, lads, lasses, and lucky souls?” The Ronso turns on his heel. “The Warrior of Darkness is depending on us! You make this count, you understand? The _least_ you can bloody do is hold this fort!” As he shouts a trio of bears runs forward, flanked on both sides by flying, horse-headed eaters, and rather than retreat Bjorn laughs at the approaching horde. “Come, you pale-skinned bastards! Come at me!”

Buoyed by the sight of their Exarch and the news of their legend’s arrival, the soldiers around them roar as one. “The Warrior of Darkness!”

“For the Crystarium!”

Gritting his teeth and raising his staff, G’raha follows their charge.

*

“Hold still,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Just a little while longer.”

“Ah, wicked white - just - _just_ -” The soldier faints, his head lolling to one side as G’raha’s blue aether spreads over his bloody stomach.

“No - !” The woman beside him grabs the young man’s cheeks. “Wake, Ivor, wake! Please!”

G’raha grits his teeth and draws upon the tower, pulling more aether into himself to channel into the healing magicks he needs. Slowly the Elf’s stomach closes over, muscles and organs and veins knitting together in a display that turns G’raha’s own stomach on its end, and he sits back on his heels as the vibrant aether fades. The woman sees her partner’s pale, fresh skin under his bloody, ripped tunic and collapses onto his chest, sobbing as she wraps her arms around him.

“He will need food when he wakes,” G’raha murmurs, though he knows it unlikely she hears him. Slowly he pushes himself to his feet, staggering slightly as he finds his balance. Every muscle aches; his head pounds; he is at least grateful that the rain has finally ended. An entire day has gone by in a downpour of water and white nightmares, and now that night has come again he wants nothing more than the chance for slumber.

“Exarch, sir?”

He gives his head a shake. He stands in the center of Fort Jobb, ringed by makeshift pallets holding blue-caped soldiers. More soldiers sit beyond the ring of beds, being tended to by the few field medics who were sent north, and even more stand guard along the walls. The stench of sweat, blood, and fouler fluids has G’raha breathing through his mouth; he tries to avoid looking at the watery red mess beneath his feet, but he cannot deny the carnage that had befallen this poor fort. Had he not arrived when he had...

“Are there any more that require my attention?” he says, finally turning his attention to the exhausted, bloody Ronso who waits for him.

“Nay, sir - we’ve got the rest in hand.” Bjorn salutes him - a tired, white-knuckled salute - before gesturing south. “Scouts report the Round’s under our control. The Imperative, too. I’d send someone north to check how the settlements faired, but -”

“I’ll find someone within the Crystarium,” G’raha says. “Your soldiers need their rest. I’ll have scouts sent to Sullen, too.” He grimaces as he thinks of the fishing villages spread along Lakeland’s southern coast; hopefully the eaters’ attention had been focused elsewhere. “Have you received any word from -”

A booming voice drowns him out; he looks to the sky just as a fleet of purple airships appears from the south. 

“What now?” Bjorn growls, but G’raha is too enthralled by a sudden, horrible realization to speak.

Vauthry’s voice. Vauthry’s words. Vauthry’s airships.

_Vauthry’s_ eaters.

Guilt coils in his belly like a snake ready to strike. What retribution Vauthry might seek should have been aimed at _him_! At him and Vahl and the Scions! It should have been _him_ that endured this fury -

But it is his people who have been caught before the storm.

G’raha bows his head as Eulmore’s mayor speaks. The man’s voice carries across all of Lakeland, one final, pained blow after a day of torment, and every word makes him cringe. How many died because of G’raha’s visit? How many lives were ruined?

“The wicked shall not inherit this world…?” G’raha repeats dully, staring at his feet as silence descends upon them. He shakes his head. _No one_ will inherit this world if Vauthry has his way - there will be no world left! There will be _nothing_ left!

“It’s a load of shite,” Bjorn says loudly, knocking G’raha back to reality. He looks to the Ronso, as many others in their gathering do, but the monk stays focused on the starry sky above them. “Eulmore sent eaters against us? Against _us_? We’re trying to save the world and they’re watching us die?” He twists to one side and spits. “Bastards, the lot of them!” He turns back to G’raha with a look of barely-contained fury. “Best you get to your tower, my lord. We can handle things here.”

“Of course,” G’raha says quietly. “Good luck.” He bows to the lieutenant before drawing upon the tower once more, and within a breath he has teleported back to the Exedra.

The Crystarium is quiet. Under the dark of night he hopes most of his people have been able to rest - but, based on the lights brightening Spagyrics, some few still work. Strapping courage to his spine and determination to his step, he makes for the chirurgeons’ chambers.

“Chessamile?” he calls quietly from the entrance, looking around to the half-dozen healers working in the wide, brightly-lit space. Not every bed is full; normally that would be a good sign, but G’raha knows how sin eaters fight. For every soul resting here he can only assume another dozen were lost to the overpowering onslaught of aether.

“She isn’t here, my lord.” A grey-haired Mystel in conjurer’s robes approaches G’raha from the back of the room; sweat slicks his hair against his head and dark circles under his eyes give some indication of how busy Spagyrics had been throughout the day. “She took an amaro west when we heard about Captain Lyna.”

G’raha’s heart leaps into his throat. Caught between fear and desperation he grasps his staff in both hands lest he grab the Mystel’s shoulders and shake him. “Is - is she -”

“I’m sorry, ser - I thought you knew! She took a heavy hit, but they’re projecting she’ll make a full recovery - I believe Chessamile is already on her way back, and hopefully the Captain will have the good sense to come with her.”

“The Captain always has good sense,” G’raha says distantly, but his thoughts are pulling him west.

She’d been hurt. She’d been hurt badly enough to require _Chessamile’s_ attention. Whatever this Mystel might say - and however breezily he says it - does not detract from the fact that Chessamile would not have left the Crystarium for a simple injury.

Guilt for his people - guilt for his soldiers - guilt for Lyna, caught up in a world of fictions that are rapidly coming undone - 

“Please send word the moment they arrive,” G’raha says, aware his voice is distant yet unable to muster the will to modify it. “No matter how late.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

He leaves Spagyrics feeling far worse than he had entering it. Though he knows he should sleep - _must_ sleep - he expects to spend most of the night pacing. 

How many beds will be empty tonight? How many bodies will never be recovered?

How many once-friendly faces will they be forced to confront the next time eaters attack?

With head bowed and cheeks damp, G’raha slowly begins the long ascent up to his Ocular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urianger dialogue............my old enemy........


	51. A Proliferation of Regretful Baggage

A knock stirs G’raha from his light slumber. He jerks awake, looking this way and that as he takes in the unexpected surroundings: he sits upon his Ocular dais, his back against the crystal wall with his staff across his lap. He cannot be sure of the hour, but judging by the weariness that numbs his foggy brain he hasn't slept for long: it has likely only been a few hours since he returned from Fort Jobb. His body protests every movement as he staggers to his feet.; numb hands adjust his hood after slipping his staff over his shoulder. He takes a moment to simply stand - taking in every ache and pain, every tired muscle and cracking joint - before he moves to open the door.

Vahl stands on the other side. His armour is bloody and battle-worn; his hair slicked back with dried sweat; grime covers his face and hands -

But his eyes, oh - his eyes are still the brightest, most brilliant of blues.

“Would you mind some company?” the Warrior asks.

“Please,” G’raha says, stepping back from the doorway. “Come in. I - I do not have anywhere to sit…”

“Too much adrenaline to sit.” Vahl moves past him, stopping in the center of the room with his hands on his hips. He has a jittery air to him, a sense of activity that G’raha can only shake his head at. “Heard you held Fort Jobb.”

“Barely.” G’raha’s smile is grim, and it disappears within a heartbeat. “Were you with Lyna? I’ve been waiting for her to return, but I must have dozed off -”

“She’s staying at the Imperative for the night. Chessamile thought it best she sleep before attempting the return journey.” Vahl tilts his head to one side. “She isn’t simply your Captain of the Guard, is she? Family? Lover?”

“Family is closest.” G’raha’s gaze strays back to his mirror; he’d fallen asleep with it showing the Ostall Imperative. “‘Daughter’ if you’re feeling generous. She is an orphan, in truth, and I have done what I can for her.”

“You’ve done well, if you don’t mind me saying so. She’s an impressive fighter - an impressive leader, too.”

G’raha bows his head. As encouraging as it is to hear someone voice his own thoughts, he wishes Lyna was there to hear them. He wishes Lyna hadn’t been hurt - wishes Lyna hadn’t been forced into this mess! She deserves none of it. 

“Vauthry’s a bit of a cunt, eh?”

G’raha snorts. “Vauthry is many things. I wouldn’t call him that to his face, of course, but I can’t disagree with you.” Thinking of Vauthry reminds G’raha of Vauthry’s eaters; of Vauthry’s airships circling Lakeland while his people lay bruised, beaten, _eaten_ upon the blood-soaked ground; of the fury and unabated rage that should have been directed at him - at _him_ , not these souls, not these innocent people, not these farmers and fishermen and -

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Causality is complicated,” G’raha murmurs. He holds his hands out before him, turning them over before he curls his fingers into fists. “It is strange to find myself weighed down by such regrets. In all my plotting and planning not once did I suspect Vauthry would betray us so thoroughly -”

“No one in Lakeland holds you responsible,” Vahl interrupts. “I least of all.”

“Well.” G’raha looks away. Embarrassment and gratitude mingle uncomfortably; he does not want _Vahl_ to have witnessed this failure, but he appreciates that he doesn’t think of it as such. “Thank you.”

“How are you? Really?” 

The urge to lie - to hide behind his fictions and his hood and their more pressing concerns - is immediate, and G’raha is already opening his mouth when he accidentally makes eye contact with the Warrior. 

Something unexpected tumbles out instead.

“I imagine you have some experience with guilt,” he says. Vahl’s eyes narrow, but G’raha keeps speaking - it is as though a dam has finally given way; the words spill out of him, bubbling and churning in their urgency to finally be heard. “I tell myself it is destiny; that everything I have done has led me to this point and that giving up now will undo all the work - the _sacrifice_ \- that came before. I tell myself my people fight because they choose to - but no one _chooses_ to go to war. War is the last option after diplomacy fails. Diplomacy _did_ fail, and I was the mouthpiece that allowed it to.”

“Diplomacy didn’t have a chance,” Vahl argues. He is just short of being dismissive; he continues to shift and pace with leftover energy from the earlier chaos. “Vauthry didn’t invite you to Eulmore to discuss compromises - he summoned you hoping you would bend your knee.”

“If I’d known what he is capable of -”

“It was inevitable. At least now the cards are on the table: we battle sin eaters. Vauthry has aligned himself with them, therefore we battle Vauthry, too.”

“‘We’?” G’raha repeats. “Or you?”

Vahl stills. Something flickers across his face - something dark and dangerous, something G’raha wouldn’t dare put a name to - and they stare at each other in silence as G’raha’s accusation lingers. It was too familiar; too knowing; too _personal_. He’d put a toe across the line he’d drawn between _Exarch_ and _G’raha Tia_ ; in this moment, speaking painful thoughts with the one soul he has ever trusted with his heart, the walls unexpectedly came down.

“My apologies,” he murmurs. “That was inappropriate.”

“Though uncannily accurate,” Vahl admits. He rubs the back of his neck as he frowns at the floor; G’raha watches him anxiously, preparing himself for the moment the Warrior throws up his hands and walks out - but Vahl shrugs instead. “We’ll have to see, won’t we? Eventually our path will lead us to Kholusia. I doubt I’d be so lucky as to meet him upon a battlefield, but I have to admit stranger things have happened.” His gaze sharpens as he looks directly at G’raha’s shadowed face. “You spoke earlier of my experience with guilt. It’s been argued that it isn’t mine to carry - that friends made choices, that companions reacted selflessly and should be applauded for it - but I have had _enough_ of watching the people I care for give their all. I’m the Warrior of Light, aren’t I? A bloody Weapon of Light? Never again - _never again_ will I stand by and watch someone I love pay the ultimate price.”

G’raha’s shaking his head before Vahl finishes speaking. Misty, jumbled memories fill his mind’s eye - hated memories of a gaol with a cold stone floor, and the rhythmic _blip - blip - blip_ of water nearby, and an apparition pulled from his own jumbled, shocked mind - a mind but newly-adjusted to the apocalypse around him, to the deaths and the illnesses and the constant fight to live in a world bereft of its hero - 

_“You’re a protector, aren’t you? Always have been. Your first day here you made a shield! And you’ve been making them ever since.”_

“You’re a sword,” he says aloud. Seeing Vahl’s look of confusion he tries again. “You’re not meant to be the last line of defense. You say you cannot stand to witness another sacrifice, but have you considered what the world would look like if you weren’t out there, doing what you do? What would happen to our people if you were not able to step ahead of them - to take our foes’ attention and direct it to yourself? Yes, you’ve watched friends die, but _one_ here, _one_ there - without you to take the brunt of the attention _hundreds_ would die with them! _Thousands_!” His voice echoes back to him and he catches himself. Had he been _shouting_ at Vahl? Here and now? And _why not_? Shouting feels good! Shouting feels great! If Vahl truly believes G’raha made the wrong choice, well - shouting is long overdue! “Your friends and allies are not children to be coddled or delicate sculptures to be kept out of reach! It is _their_ choice what they do with their lives - whether it hurts you or not!”

In the silence that follows G’raha realizes his fists are clenched; his chest is heaving; he’s thinking of the doors to Syrcus Tower and Vahl’s shattered, heartbroken face as G’raha stepped beyond them; he’s thinking of his own guilt carried through three centuries to this very moment - and to hear Vahl say he’d have stopped him if he could? To hear Vahl dismiss his choice - his _autonomous_ choice - when G’raha knows exactly how high the cost would be? 

Three hundred years of guilt and regret suddenly evolve into something more heated. Locking himself in the tower had been the right choice! No matter how painful it was or the trials he has faced, G’raha would not change his fate.

Alas that he cannot tell Vahl without giving himself away.

A knock sounds at the Ocular door. Neither of them move; Vahl stares red-faced at G’raha, who had unknowingly taken a step forward. Forcing himself to physically and mentally distance himself from this unexpected burst of anguish, G’raha moves back towards his dais. 

“You called yourself a Weapon of Light? _Be_ the weapon, but allow us to be your shields.” He lifts his chin and looks to the door. “Enter!”

It takes everything he has not to look at Vahl while the Scions file into the room. He focuses on each of them - on Thancred, bandaged and pale; Minfilia, watching Thancred; the twins, who notice immediately that something has upset their Warrior; Y’shtola and Urianger, solemn and silent and waiting -

He looks to them expecting to see regret, blame, even despair - emotions he could not fault them for after witnessing the horror of a swarm let loose, emotions he would _expect_ to see following the nightmarish day they’ve all had to endure - but they, like Vahl, display none of it. Aside from exhaustion they are just as eager to move forward as they’d been before Rak’tika.

Vahl shifts at the edge of his vision. The flush that had dominated his cheeks is gone; he watches G’raha with an intensity that G’raha struggles to parse, but he does not have the time to dwell on it, let alone mend the damage. Whatever rift he might have torn in their slowly-blossoming relationship will have to wait.

“My friends,” he says, and through his exhaustion and worry he finds some mote of strength in that simple phrase. Strange friends - powerful friends - unexpected, occasionally-difficult friends - and Vahl, as unpredictable and changed as he might be! G’raha is already drafting an apology - for later, for after, for whenever he has a chance - but he gains courage from the simple fact that the Warrior of Light is still here.

And then the Ascian walks in and the bubble is burst.

*

It is past midnight when the Scions leave his Ocular. None of them are happy with their plan to proceed through Amh Araeng, and Emet-Selch’s glib commentary regarding Minfilia’s upcoming choice aided them not at all, but they are out of time to find alternatives. G’raha glares at the Ascian as the Scions filter out; the man raises his eyebrows in a mock rendition of innocence before vanishing into a cloud of dark aether.

“Good riddance,” G’raha mutters, glaring at the empty space where Emet-Selch had stood. What god thought fit to curse him with an Ascian hanger-on during the most important days of this century-long project he does not know, but he wishes they had not thought to test his patience in such a cruel way. 

His Ocular door slams shut - with Vahl on the inside.

“Ah.” He blinks at the picture before him: Vahl’s hand holds the door closed, his fingers splayed over the gold and blue design as he stares at G’raha with an intensity that - on a different shard, on a different world, in a different life - would have had G’raha biting his lip in anticipation. _Now_ , however…

“We almost lost Y’shtola.” Vahl’s brilliant blue eyes are unavoidable. “Back in Rak’tika. Were it not for Emet-Selch she would have been beyond our reach. Are you asking me to look at her as another one of my ‘shields’, Exarch? Someone to take the fall so that I might carry on?”

“If that is her choice, then I should not have to ask you.”

The Warrior closes his eyes. He snorts and drops his hand from the door; all of the energy and tension that had moved him earlier are gone. “I’ll...take that into consideration.” He looks to G’raha one last time. “I’m not fighting to keep my friends alive so that I don’t have to suffer through the loss of them - I’m fighting because they deserve to live just as much as I do. Maybe you should ask yourself why you don't feel the same.”

G’raha’s jaw drops, but before he can attempt to scavenge his thoughts Vahl pulls open the door and is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> conflict?! in my wolexarch fic?! it's more likely than you think


	52. Secrets and Sausage Links

The Scions are long gone by the time G’raha leaves Syrcus Tower the next morning. He’d spent an unhealthy amount of time watching Vahl’s group in his mirror; both Vahl and Thancred look equally miserable as their foursome journey through Lakeland to the northern deserts of Amh Araeng. Minfilia has an intensity to her that G’raha admires, and Urianger is quietly solemn - though that isn’t saying much - but G’raha’s attention focuses on the Warrior of Light. Cowardly as it may have been to avoid him, forcing a confrontation so quickly after their discussion would not have ended well. G’raha needs time to think, as he’s sure Vahl does as well, and allowing the Scions to leave without a send-off seemed the wisest choice.

Thinking, however, is not that easy. Shame and regret clog his ability to work through the mess he’s been left with; he cannot help cringing every time he recalls Vahl’s final words.

Has he put Vahl on a pedestal? Has he lost sight of everything beyond his Warrior’s survival?

After speaking with Vahl he is no longer sure.

In an attempt to stop his tired, crowded mind from replaying their conversation _yet again_ , he goes hunting for Lyna. Chessamile confirms she has returned but that she never visited Spagyrics; Ballistics is deserted; there is no answer when G’raha knocks at Lyna’s personal quarters in Rapture. Rather than panic, G’raha allows his feet to lead him to the place he should have checked first.

Travyrs opens his door after the first knock. He arches an eyebrow and gives a slight shake of his head; G’raha acknowledges the warning but pushes past his friend. Lyna sits in G’raha’s usual chair, one leg heavily bandaged and a cluster of scratches across her cheeks; she watches G’raha warily while repeatedly running her finger around the lip of the mug in her hands.

“How are you?” he asks. He hears Travyrs move to the kitchen - no doubt to find him a mug of his own - but he keeps his attention on Lyna. Tempted though he may be to extend a tendril of healing aether towards her, he knows she will not appreciate him doing so without asking.

“I have been better,” she admits cautiously. She looks away. “We lost many souls yesterday. Soldiers and civilians alike. I...I did not…” She takes a deep breath before trying again. “Though we made plans for war, I did not expect it to come in such a form. Eulmore caught me off-guard.”

“I think all of us were unprepared,” G’raha says quietly. He squats beside her chair and rests his hands atop the armrest. “Will you allow me to look you over?”

“There are others who need your attention more.”

He blinks in surprise. “Lyna -”

“No, my lord. I do not require much in the way of healing, and I would rather you spend your aether elsewhere.” She refuses to meet his eyes, instead staring resolutely out the window. “Have the Scions already departed?”

“I - yes. Yes, they have.” He doesn’t want to take this - whatever _this_ is - personally, but it is difficult not to when she won’t even look at him. “They set out at dawn.”

“I saw them fight,” she murmurs, her head still turned from him. “They were even more inspiring than at Holminster Switch - to see all of them, with the Oracle right there with them, made me believe we might walk away unscathed.” She hesitates. “I - I am sorry, my lord. I must visit the families of the fallen - there are words to be said, belongings to be turned over, paperwork to do -” 

“How many did you lose?”

Lyna’s breath shudders as her teeth pierce her lip. G’raha hears a scurrying sound behind him and glances over his shoulder; Travyrs is quickly making his way to the door.

“Just popping over to the bathing room,” the Elf says quietly. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Of course,” G’raha murmurs. It is a simple enough ruse, but he appreciates it regardless. He waits until the door closes, leaving himself alone with Lyna, before pressing her again. “How bad were the casualties, Captain?”

“Bad,” she whispers. “And difficult to tally, with so few bodies left behind.” Her nails tap frantically over her mug, playing an indiscernible pattern across its glazed surface. “Some of them turned on me.”

G’raha bows his head. There is only one thing a citizen of Norvrandt means when they use that phrase; it causes him a wealth of pain to hear her utter those hated words. “You are not to blame.”

“There was no reason that I should survive and they should not. We were grouped together - we fought side-by-side! It should - it should -”

“No.” G’raha lifts the mug out of her grasp, placing it beneath the chair before he takes her freezing hands in his. Vahl’s words from the day before rattle around his head and he clenches his teeth, willing himself the strength to persevere. “No, my dear - it should _not_ have been you. Norvrandt needs you - _I_ need you - and, no matter how difficult it is to hear, those of us who remain are blessed to have you by our side.”

Tears slide down her cheeks, one after another after another. “They did not deserve that fate.”

“No one does - and it is not your fault, dear Lyna.” He tightens his grip, waiting until she finally looks towards his shadowed face before continuing, “What comes next will only be harder. If our people are to see this through they will need strong souls to lead them - souls that feel guilt, and regret, and empathy. Souls that would trade their place in a heartbeat - but also recognize their worth, and rise to face whatever challenge awaits.” Acknowledgement flares in her lilac eyes before she drops her gaze to their hands; more tears drip from her chin to her lap. “I wish you’d told me sooner.”

“You would have been the next to know,” she grumbles. “I wanted to ask Travyrs how best to tell you.”

“Ah.” Is it strange that he feels a beat of jealousy? “I hope his advice was helpful.”

“He said I was acting a fool.”

G’raha winces. Whether he agrees with Travyrs or not, that is an opinion he will most definitely keep to himself. “The leg - how bad is it, really?”

With a groan and a childlike roll of her eyes, she shifts her legs towards him. “Look if it will calm you, but it is only a sprain. You worry too much, my lord.”

“I worry just the right amount.” Giving her hands one last squeeze, he releases them to hold his fingers over her bandaged knee. Blue aether shimmers between them, spreading gently until it suffuses her from thigh to shin, and he closes his eyes to better focus. It takes but a moment to assure himself that she speaks truly: with sufficient healing she will be back to her usual within the week. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” She looks past him as he stands, giving the door a look of exasperation. “Travyrs! You can come in!”

The Elf immediately pops his grey-haired head inside, his eyes scouring over both Lyna and G’raha before the rest of him crosses the threshold. “All is well?”

“As well as can be,” Lyna replies. She pushes herself to her feet, hobbling somewhat on her bad leg - and though G’raha wants to reach out a hand to help, he forces himself to simply avert his gaze. “I’ll visit after dinner, if that’s fine with you?”

“You are always welcome, my dear.” Travyrs gives her his best smile as she exits; it melts away the moment the door closes behind her. “Wicked white. I like none of this.” He pauses before shaking his head. “Actually, I do appreciate the sky returning to Rak’tika. It hasn’t been my home in decades, but I can only imagine how thankful my kin might be.”

“Vahl did say they were overjoyed.”

“Hmm.” Travyrs taps a finger against his lips, giving G’raha a shrewd look that immediately sets him on edge. “Is that a trace of bitterness I hear?”

“What? No, I - I’m only tired - yesterday was taxing and -” G’raha purses his lips together before he digs himself an even deeper hole. He leans back in Travyrs's old chair, slouching as he crosses his arms over his chest, only to feel something strange press into his lower back. “Travyrs, this chair of yours -” He twists around to stick his hand between the cushion and the armrest, thinking to pull out a misplaced sock or cloth, but instead his fingers wrap around a round, smooth object. A small, golden locket nestles in the center of his crystal hand as he pulls it free of the cushions; an old, delicate chain attaches to the top. It is the type that might hold a painting within, but before G’raha can even consider opening the latch Travyrs makes a noise of protest.

“Ah! Ah, I’ll take that!” Travyrs swoops forward with surprising agility, snatching the locket and pulling away. “Thank you for finding it for me. An old family keepsake, you see - a little thing. A trifle. It’s - thank you for finding it.” He stuffs it within his chest pocket, patting the little lump against his breast as if to reassure himself it is safe there, and moves towards the kitchen. “Were you interested in breakfast? There are some lovely sausage links leftover from Lyna’s meal.”

“Travyrs…”

“Shall you share your secret first? Or shall I?”

G’raha sighs and rubs his forehead. “This again?”

“Of course. We made a deal, did we not? A secret for a secret? If your hood stays on, the locket stays with me.”

“I was merely curious,” G’raha grumbles. He is not seriously upset by Travrys’s stance, but his friend’s strange behaviour manages to distract him from his issues with Vahl - for a little longer, at least. “Sausage links sound wonderful. And coffee, please?”

“ _Someone_ didn’t sleep well.” The sounds of movement from within the kitchen stop; G’raha raises his head to see the Elf frowning at him. “Teasing and riddles aside, are you well? Yesterday would have been difficult for anyone, but you…”

“Indeed,” G’raha murmurs, dropping his gaze to his hands. “In truth I barely slept. I could not stop replaying every detail - every mistake.” Mistakes on the battlefield; mistakes with Vauthry; mistakes with Vahl...

Travyrs turns back to his cupboards and begins pulling out plates and cutlery. “You weren’t the only one. That dark-haired friend of yours was wandering the walkways over the Musica Universalis.”

G’raha looks up. “Vahl? Vahl was awake?”

“Most of the night, I believe. Not that I can judge, of course: how would I know were I not up and about at the same time? I watched him from my window.”

“Damn it.” G’raha presses his fingertips against his eyelids as he forces himself to focus on breathing. He shouldn’t have said what he had the day before; he shouldn’t have allowed himself to give in to the weariness and the fear and the overwhelming frustration. Both of them had endured an unexpected onslaught - is it any wonder that their tempers betrayed them?

_I’m fighting because they deserve to live._

G’raha cringes away from that memory. Has he not already spent a night paralyzed by those words? There is nothing to be gained by repeating the same refrain time and time again: until he speaks to Vahl he can only move in circles.

The guilt will eat him alive if he doesn’t keep busy.

*

As the days begin to stretch G’raha finds himself making excuses to retreat to his Ocular, to pull away from the council and Lyna as his attention is repeatedly drawn to the adventurers in the south. Sometimes standing and sometimes sitting, he quickly loses track of how much time passes as he watches Vahl discover Garik, venture outside of the mines at Mount Biran, and finally traverse the ravine to enter Twine.

It isn’t exciting. It isn’t life-or-death. There are days of nothing but walking, or conversations with strangers that G’raha cannot hear. No part of this viewing brings him closer to Vahl or brings him a sense of fulfillment, and yet -

And yet…

Nearly a week after setting out from the Crystarium Vahl and Urianger set about working with one of the Talos in Twine. Without auditory clues G’raha is hard-pressed to understand what the problem might be, but he cannot bring himself to turn away.

He wishes he was with them. With everything he has and everything he is, with a sense of longing so potent he feels it in his chest, he wants to adventure with Vahl.

His Ocular door opens behind him, interrupting the thought; he hears the door close before footsteps echo across the room.

“There is only one soul confident enough to enter these chambers without knocking,” he says, still watching the Talos in his mirror. “What troubles you now? Curiosity or boredom?”

“The latter,” Emet-Selch sighs. “Physical labour? Tolling beneath the open, blistering skies? I’d much rather sleep.” When G’raha doesn’t immediately reply he groans. “Oh, not you, too - all I ask is a little levity! Just a touch! I’m _bored_ , Exarch, and you are the only soul on this damn shard worth talking to.”

“How unfortunate for me,” G’raha murmurs.

“Which leads into a wonder of mine: why have you not informed your dear companions that you and I speak in private? Surely your dear hero would be interested.”

“The Warrior of Light needs no further encouragement to dislike you. Whatever your reasons for meddling, I would prefer he forms his own opinions.” G’raha cannot stop his lip from curling. “I would also prefer that he does not challenge you on my behalf.”

“Oh?” The Ascian’s voice is high-pitched, almost teasing. “Have you come to _care_ for him, Exarch?”

G’raha inhales sharply. He grits his teeth, willing himself not to turn around - not to rise to this very obvious bait - and while he struggles the Ascian keeps talking.

“I’ve wondered, you know, at this puzzle you’ve set before me. Your identity is a mystery to everyone upon this shard - your very history is unknown! You may as well have sprung fully-formed from the earth nearly a century ago!” Emet-Selch’s voice shifts to a low croon. “But I know so very much about this tower you’ve commandeered. It was mine, did you know? As was most of Allag. Nothing in their vast repertoire would have provided you the ability to summon souls across the rift - especially a soul capable of wearing his own flesh! Even we Ascians could not manoeuvre such a trick.”

“I am continuously happy to confuse you,” G’raha says, turning to face the hated, slouched Garlean. “My history is yet unwritten - but I have been heralded here by the wishes of those who came before. By the hopes and dreams of those who wanted a world without you and your meddling - a world free from your Rejoinings. I will stop at no less.”

Though fury motivates G’raha to speak, he cannot help noticing the disappointment that silences his adversary. Emet-Selch’s face falls, his eyes growing distant, and it is clear the man had hoped for a different answer.

“What was it Vahl said to you on your first day here? ‘Get you gone, devil’?” G’raha turns around, looking back to his mirror. “Leave.”

Emet-Selch snorts - but he makes no other retort before the sound of a voidgate opening, and then closing, fills the Ocular.

The Scions have moved on; the crystal mirror only shows the deactivated Talos slumped forward, arms dangling in front of it as its empty gaze stares at nothing. G’raha snarls in frustration and dispels the image.

He cannot rid Urianger’s warning from his mind. Y’shtola had departed before he had a chance to speak with her, and now Vahl is en route to another Lightwarden. What if the aether proves too much? What if his Blessing of Light is finally overwhelmed? 

What if G’raha gambled too high?

It is too late to change their path: Vahl is beyond his reach. Whatever comes of this mission - and whatever fate awaits Minfilia and the Oracle - there is nothing G’raha can do.

Knowing Emet-Selch is similarly frustrated is not the comfort G’raha needs.

*

In his dreams an army of slouched, blank-eyed Talos surround him - unseeing, unmoving, unspeaking. He needs to move past them but the moment he takes a step they meld and shift; carved stone becomes black and red cloth with gold and fur embellishments as the dead, empty eyes spark gold.

“Hello, little thief.”

“No,” G’raha says, quickly backing up - but his hood is pushed back; his Allagan staff stripped from his hands; fear paralyzes his limbs as he shrinks beneath the looming spectres of dozens and dozens of Emet-Selchs. “No! I’m not who you think I am! I’m not - _I’m not_ -”

“You’re a Tia pretending to be a Nunh.” The words are echoed and repeated in a chorus of bored, high-pitched voices; Emet-Selch sneers at him from every angle even as the copies continue to grow taller and taller, arching forward with their slouched, limp hands dangling above his head. In unison the figures raise their right hands, middle fingers pressed against thumbs, and G’raha feels his heart leap into his throat at the reverberating _snap_ that fills this dark space. The sound ricochets through his head - 

Everything vanishes.

Darkness.

Silence.

He is not alone.

Something looms in that blackness around him - something that waits, watching and prowling, its talons sharp and its teeth bared in a rictus grin -

“You’re going to lose, little thief, and when you do…” Enormous golden eyes flare in the darkness across from him. “Your power will be _mine_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting this early just because! have a wonderful week!


	53. A Dark and Stormy Knight

“Before anything else!” Thancred enters the Ocular with an unexpected burst of energy, flinging the doors wide to allow the dust-covered Scions to follow in after him. “Before Lightwardens and Eulmore and whatever news you might have for us! Exarch, if I may have the pleasure of introducing Ryne…?”

“Wicked white,” G’raha murmurs, watching the red-haired girl step out from the gunbreaker’s shadow. If Thancred’s exuberance had surprised him, the girl’s radical change leaves him dumbstruck. Of all the things he expected from the south, this is most definitely not one of them! She tucks her hair behind her ears, looking both pleased and embarrassed by this second introduction, and G’raha understands now is not the time to stare. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ryne. I trust you had a successful venture in the south?”

“We did,” she says. Her smile is radiant, and G’raha realizes that this might be the first time he’s seen her truly happy. “Night has returned to Amh Araeng.”

“And we may have a Talos operation in the works,” Thancred murmurs with a glint in his eyes. “We shall keep you posted on that venture, of course.”

“Ah - of course.” Looking around at the others he sees expressions of relief mixed with the exhaustion he has come to expect after one of these outings - and something else, a worry that hadn’t been there prior to Amh Araeng. It takes him longer than it should to realize Vahl is missing from this gathering, and his stomach curls into a knot of anxiety. “Where is the Warrior of Light?”

Y’shtola and Ryne exchange looks; the Mystel speaks first. “I requested he retire early. Unlike with previous Lightwardens, this last experience did not go well. The Light aether is…” She shakes her head in frustration. “It is overwhelming him. Though I asked him to sleep, in truth I doubt any amount of rest will heal the damage already done.”

“He is beginning to fracture,” Ryne adds quietly. 

Shivers run up and down G’raha’s spine. A moment of denial flits across his consciousness - surely they interpreted the aether incorrectly! Vahl hasn't had any trouble before this! - but as his gaze travels across the other Scions he sees the truth reflected in the fear in their eyes. Fear for Vahl and Vahl’s future, for the future of Norvrandt and what it will mean if they cannot destroy the last Lightwarden, for the impending Calamity and whatever Emet-Selch has planned - 

And fear that G’raha might not have their best interests at heart.

“I shall speak with him,” G’raha announces. He can do nothing for their doubt, but at the very least he can head off the worst of their worries before they spread to him.

“Now?”

“Now. I would verify the truth of this with mine own eyes. I am a healer, am I not? If his soul is in danger it is my duty to aid him however I can.” Not that G’raha believes there is much he _can_ do in this circumstance, but he will make a wholehearted attempt. “If no one has any objections?”

The Scions exchange looks. Doubt, worry, and confusion flicker across their faces, and there is a moment where he worries Y’shtola will try to stop him - but she only rests her hands on her hips. They quickly filter out of the tower with G’raha bringing up the rear.

If anyone is likely to stop G’raha it is Vahl himself.

*

Rain falls in lazy, scattered showers throughout the Crystarium - more a warning of storms to come than an actual downpour - and G’raha picks up his pace as he crosses the Exedra. The lights from the Pendants are like to beacons in the gloom around him, and he cannot help but wonder how many times he has made this late-night journey beneath a deluge of Light. Whether to pester Travyrs or to care for Lyna as a child, the Pendants has long been a place of refuge for those he treasures - _those he loves_ \- and he realizes this is the first time he has visited Vahl within his own room.

He climbs the stairs slowly, his heart pitter-pattering against his chest like rabbit feet pounding out a warning. The closer he comes to that ominous door the more he wants to turn around - but that is ridiculous! This is _Vahl_ he goes to meet - a friend in this life and more in another! What is the worst that could happen?

_They deserve to live. Maybe you should ask yourself why that isn’t your priority._

His knock echoes through the dark hallway. While he waits he twists his hands around his wrists; his tail fights to free itself from its bindings as he fidgets outside the Warrior’s door. It is a small blessing that no one is about to watch him flounder through every stage of doubt; he feels like a child again, rather than the hundred-year-plus old man he is.

Vahl opens the door before G’raha can work himself into a true panic. The Warrior looks tired - but at first glance he seems healthy. Whole. 

“My apologies,” G’raha says, freezing his limbs in place lest he squirm. “I know it is late, and Y’shtola informed me you were destined for an early bed, but -” He pauses. His eyes scan Vahl’s dusty cheeks, his tousled black hair, his wrinkled black undershirt and dark breeches - and something shifts. The nerves fade away, and what is left... “How are you?”

There is no hint of anger in the man’s eyes. He opens the door even wider and steps to the side, jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen table. “Why don’t you come inside? I think this warrants a longer chat.”

“Ah - well. Of course - if you believe so - I’ll just -” He clamps his mouth shut and hurries inside, leaving the dark hallway for the warm glow of Vahl’s rented room. It is similar to Travyrs’s - though not nearly so cluttered - and the shutters are wide open, revealing the downpour of rain G’raha was lucky enough to avoid.

Vahl sits on the kitchen stool nearest the window and G’raha gingerly slides onto the other. The table is a mess of books, many of which G’raha recognizes as histories of Norvrandt, and coins and bits of armour lie scattered across the wood. A whetstone rests near Vahl’s seat, though his blade leans against the far wall; G’raha cannot immediately discern what Vahl had been doing before he answered G’raha’s knock. Research? Preparation? 

Restless pacing?

“I assume Shtola told you about the Light?”

“She did.” Forcing his finicky heart down, down, down, G’raha looks Vahl over for signs of weakness. To normal eyes he appears hale and hearty, but when he sends forth a tendril of aether… “One moment, please.”

What is wrong is not something that can be healed. It is less an illness than it is a corruption: the Light aether has latched onto Vahl with surprising tenacity. Were G’raha to attempt to heal it he has no doubts he would fail - but to steal it, to grasp all of it and transfer it within his own person, to give the hungry power a new source to feed upon…

 _That_ he can do. Without doubt.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not at this moment,” Vahl admits slowly. “But when the aether flares it is difficult to - to focus. To be present. There is much I have endured over the years, and I have grown accustomed to using my own pain for power, but this is something else entirely. I cannot channel this.”

As unsettling as it is to hear Vahl speak of pain in such a way, G’raha manages to focus on the aether pulsing within his hero. “If it is any consolation, it does not appear to be growing worse. The pain you feel - when it comes, it is as bad as it will be.”

“Until I find the next Lightwarden.”

“Yes.” G’raha dispels his aether and rests a knuckle under his chin. If he took the Light _now_ , opened a rift and threw himself within - but he _cannot_. He cannot leave this job unfinished: he _must_ guarantee Vahl finds the last Warden. A burst of lightning suddenly brightens the room; thunder rumbles through the air a few seconds later, and G’raha speaks quickly in the silence that follows. “I have asked so much of you since you arrived in Norvrandt. I, and others, have imposed upon you with few offers of reward or repayment - and it will only grow harder. Even knowing the danger, there is naught I can do but ask that you keep going.” He meets Vahl’s bright blue eyes. “Forgive me.”

Vahl rubs a hand against his jaw; the sound of rough calluses against unshaven skin feels so _normal_ compared to the magic with which they dabble. “It’s strange,” he finally says, frowning down at the table. “There was a time I might’ve said ‘no’ to all of this. Someone else’s war, in someone else’s land, filled with someone else’s people - and what am I but the tool that solves the problem? Like a hammer or a saw - but in the hands of the powerful I become something _far_ more deadly.”

“Vahl -”

He holds up a hand, forestalling G’raha’s continued apologies. “That was then. This is now. A tool I might be, but I am still capable of choosing my battles - of fighting for those who cannot, for those who _deserve_ to be fought for.”

“You are not a tool to me.”

Vahl blinks. Some of the coldness drains away as he gives G’raha an awkward, appreciative grin. “I know. Helps to hear it aloud, but I know.” He sighs and drops his hands flat atop the table, looking at his scarred fingers as he presses them against the wood. “I’m not about to leave this unfinished. I’ll be damned if I give up now - _especially_ with that bloody Ascian poking his nose into all of this. I’ll find that last Warden even if it kills me.”

“No.” G’raha’s left hand seems to move of its own volition; without any clear thought or decision to do so his palm suddenly rests atop Vahl’s hand. A flush heats the bottom of his cheeks and a little voice tells him to pull away, to break contact, to not walk down this path - but the fear coiling through his chest is far more pressing. “ _That_ is something I cannot condone. Whatever comes - no matter what we may find at the end of all of this - I want you to promise me you’ll live to return to the Source.”

Two quick flashes of lightning throw Vahl’s face into momentary shadow; he doesn’t flinch as a double beat of thunder follows them. “This is important to you.”

“You have no idea.” He releases Vahl’s hand and hides his shaking fingers in his lap. “Please.”

“I’ll do my best,” Vahl says, though he gives G’raha a thoughtful look. 

“Thank you.” He could end it there - could wish Vahl a good evening and make his exit, delaying the more difficult conversation until the morning - but he doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want this small, strange moment to end - this private moment of warm light within a storm. Not knowing what else to say to save himself from being asked to leave, he turns his attention to the only topic he knows will hold Vahl’s attention. “I apologize for what I said about swords and shields and letting your friends act as they wish. I made an assumption and it was the wrong one.”

“Ah. I wondered when that might come up.” Vahl ducks his chin as he absentmindedly begins playing with the coins on the table. “You were correct about not coddling my friends. They are indeed able to make their own decisions - but I _do_ have the right to disagree with them.” He sets one of the coins on its edge and spins it, watching the golden disc drift towards the end of the table before quickly squashing it flat against the wood. “ _Especially_ if that plan ends with their own death.”

“If the end result is worth the cost -”

“When you reduce war to mathematical projections you reduce living souls to numbers. My goal is - and always will be - to bring home everyone we can.” He picks up the little coin and sighs. “Let’s find the last Warden first, eh? You and I will have plenty of time to debate each other once this world is saved.”

“Of - of course,” G’raha whispers. It is not quite forgiveness, but he cannot bring himself to force the matter any further. Perhaps it is better that this be unresolved before the end - that they agree to disagree, lest he somehow find himself convinced by Vahl’s noble intentions. He nods quickly, hoping that will be enough, and rises. “I’ll see you on the morrow, then.” He turns and begins to make his way to the door.

“One last thing.” Vahl’s voice is pitched just loud enough to carry over the rain. “Alphinaud told me you’d asked about my beginnings as a dark knight. About my memory loss and the Temple Knights.”

G’raha freezes with his hand on the latch. His breath catches as panic sends every spare thought scurrying to the recesses of his mind; he wants to curse, to drop to his knees and apologize, to open the door and flee down the hall -

“He was wrong, you know. It did happen again.”

Pain suddenly flares within G’raha’s mouth, quickly followed by a metallic taste; he cringes as he rubs where his teeth pierced flesh. Slowly he turns to face Vahl, who still sits at the kitchen table. His bright eyes are on G’raha.

“Who did you kill?”

“Beastmen,” Vahl murmurs. “Beasts. Far too many qiqirn.” His eyes grow distant, almost glazed. “I came to my senses before I massacred the troops at Whitebrim Front.”

Why is it so damned hard to breathe? Were he any wiser he might flee the maelstrom growing behind the Warrior’s clouded eyes, but he cannot walk away from this. “What stopped you?”

“Memories. Memories of friends, and companions, and someone who -” He cuts himself off. The glazed look in his eyes fades as he gives himself a shake. “Weapon though I may be, _I_ choose when to bare my steel and when to sheath my blade. I am not like I was.”

“And - what are you now?”

The ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. “Not infallible. Human. I may not be able to take back all the hurt I’ve caused, but I can do everything in my power to make sure it never happens again.” Now he _does_ smile, albeit self-consciously. “You know, you might be the only soul who knows this. Promise not to tell the Scions, eh?”

“I - I promise,” G’raha says faintly. If Vahl blindsides him one more time _he_ might be the one in need of healing! “Thank you - for trusting me, I mean.”

“You’re surprisingly easy to talk to.” Vahl rises to move around the table, thankfully missing G’raha’s flush, and grabs a bottle from the icebox. “Drink?”

 _Take it,_ says a little voice - the inner-G’raha from the Source, the G’raha that remembers dinners and dates and moments alone. _Take it and talk. What’s the worst that could happen?_

A wavering of wills. A spilling of secrets. Two worlds lost - and Vahl along with them.

“Not tonight, I fear.” His mouth speaks the words as his heart rails against him; gods, but he wants to retreat to his own room and cry. “I would not want to keep you from your rest, and there is much work ahead of me yet. Tomorrow we set our sights upon Kholusia.”

“Always looking to the future.” Vahl raises the bottle in a strange salute before pulling out the cork and taking a swig, and then backs against the cupboards with his hands resting atop the edge of the counter. Another burst of lightning, followed by a _boom_ of thunder, makes them both pause as they wait out the noise. “Well. Thank you for coming by, Exarch. As strange as this entire experience has been, you’re a welcome light among the shadows.” He arches an eyebrow. “Or a welcome spot of Darkness within the Light? Sleep well, either way.”

“You as well,” G’raha murmurs. He hesitates a moment, drinking in the sight of Vahl - relaxed, wearing normal clothes, with sand in his hair and a cool drink in his hand - before he turns around to hastily make his exit. 

Rather than take the safe and easy route of teleporting to his Ocular, G’raha leaves the Pendants and stands in the Exedra. He is drenched within seconds, soaked right through to skin, but he lingers in that cold, dark place with his chin raised and his eyes closed.

_He was wrong, you know. It did happen again._

_You’re surprisingly easy to talk to._

Flashes of Vahl-as-he’d-been mingle with the stranger G’raha is slowly beginning to unearth. The young man he’d fallen in love with is still there - still present in this Warrior with a history nearly as dark as the aether he commands - and - _gods_! If he isn’t _more_ enticing for the hint of mystery and danger that brings! 

Cursing the slippery slope that is temptation, G’raha teleports to the warmth - and privacy - of his Ocular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vahl, being presented with the trolley problem: “Destroy the trolley.”


	54. The Always Puzzle of Living and Doing

It is difficult to remember a time before - before skylights and stone buildings, before vegetable patches and underground greenhouses, before the library of his dreams and a housing complex that grows larger every year - 

Before people turned to him to lead them -

Before the Crystarium had a name, much less its first road - 

Before he knew the depths of the problems laid before him.

His feet take him through the markets; the Wandering Stairs; the Exedra; the Hortorium. He visits Rapture and Spagyrics, Ballistics and the Mean; he takes a good half hour to play with some of the children balancing along the Rookery’s fences. He checks in with Moren, Katliss, and Bragi; for every soul he speaks to another half-dozen he simply observes. Daily life goes on within the Crystarium regardless of the changes wrought upon the world outside it: were it not for the increased presence of Lyna’s red-caped soldiers he might convince himself there is nothing wrong outside his walls, but G’raha knows all-too-well what lies ahead.

The risk to Vahl is too great. The plan that worked so well for previous Wardens will no longer suffice: asking Vahl to return to the Crystarium after absorbing the creature’s aether is playing the riskiest game yet, and G’raha is not willing to lose. 

If he cannot ensure that Vahl will safely return to him, _he_ will go to _Vahl_.

His last walk around the city he has called home for nearly a hundred years is not nearly so melancholy as he imagined it being: it manages to be a reminder of what he has fought for, what he has achieved, and what he will leave behind. He makes his sacrifice so that these innocent lives might continue to live in blissful ignorance, and he does it willingly. Perhaps not _eagerly_ , but there is a vast difference between understanding the necessity of a thing and wishing it was someone else’s burden.

Someone else might not have the strength. Someone else might not follow through. With the responsibility in his own hands at least G’raha can be certain _he_ will not turn astray.

G’raha’s wandering feet take him below Rapture, to the dark, quiet earth hidden beneath towering, blue-tinted glass and heavy metal spires. Headstones and markers dot the ground every few fulms; some are simple white stones, while others are more elaborate, and the entire area at once feels removed from the bustle and bright lights of the rest of the Crystarium. While it is a decent-sized cemetery, G’raha has no issues finding the markers he wants.

“One last farewell,” he murmurs, staring down at the carved names upon the headstones of the three council members who served with him first: Ferro, Sanga-Vri, and Orlyg. Kneeling atop the soft earth, he uses his nails to peel away some of the moss and grass covering Orlyg’s; he wipes dust and dirt from Sanga-Vri’s; Ferro’s is still nearly as pristine as the day they laid her to rest. “Thank you for the humble beginning.”

“Hard to imagine such a thing for our Exarch.”

G’raha nearly trips over his robes in his hurry to stand and spin around; he feels fairly foolish to find Lyna standing nearby, watching him with a strange look in her eyes. “Ah! Were you already here or - or - on a patrol? I did not see -”

“Bragi asked that I find you,” she replies. She tilts her head to one side. “He said you were in a strange mood.”

“He may be overthinking -”

“Katliss said the same. Finding you here makes me inclined to agree with them.” Her eyes finally leave him, shifting to the newest headstone. “Ferro would have liked Vahl.”

“She would have argued with him,” G’raha corrects her, momentarily distracted from his council’s gossiping by that entertaining daydream. “She’d have argued with all of the Scions - Y’shtola most of all.” He bows his head. “But yes - she would have liked him, too.”

“My lord - why are you here?”

He opens his mouth, intending to divert her attention to something simpler - something less upsetting - but he knows there is no point in delaying this any further. Difficult as the words may be, he owes her much, much more. Stepping away from his departed friends’ graves, he takes one of Lyna’s long-fingered hands in his own. “You’ve made me ridiculously proud. To witness how far you’ve come has been an honour and a joy.”

Her eyebrows shoot upwards and she steps back. “Don’t -”

“No matter what comes, I want you to know that I am grateful for our time together.” He squeezes her hand. “I wish I could have been more honest with you.”

“There will be time,” she says softly, though it sounds akin to a prayer rather than a proclamation. “Later. After.”

He takes a deep breath. “I am going to Kholusia.”

“I expected you to.”

“If I don’t return -“

“The Scions would not allow it.” She says it with such conviction his heart hurts to hear it, and as he shakes his head she wraps both of her hands around his. “The Scions and the Oracle will do everything they can. You _will_ come home, my lord.”

“I am sure they will do their best.”

She doesn’t like that response. After a moment she drops his hand and moves away from him, taking great care not to step on any of the markers at their feet, but she is quite a distance away before she speaks again. “You have spoken with Travyrs?”

“He is next.”

She snorts and shakes her head. “He will not approve.” Another shake clears her eyes; she faces him directly and salutes him, holding the position as her bright eyes seek the recesses of his hood. “Good luck, my lord. I shall keep watch over the Crystarium until your return.”

“Thank you,” he says, and he waits until she has left the cemetery before adding, “Daughter.”

*

“I believe you’re being ridiculous, and I have no interest in listening to the rest of it.”

“Travyrs -”

“Either change the topic or leave.”

G’raha narrows his eyes. “You have grown quarrelsome, my old friend.”

“You have been lucky enough to witness the transformation.” The Elf’s knuckles turn white, one holding his cup as the other grips the saucer below it, and his face contorts into a scowl. “I am speaking _sense_ \- something you have apparently misplaced in your pursuit of salvation and whatever else has filled your mysterious head! I’ll hear no more talk of farewells or fanciful recollections of lives well-spent - they are _not_ spent! They are _not_ over! Whatever you think will happen when you leave the Crystarium is a worst-case scenario!”

“Or a best-case -”

“Exarch!” Travyrs smashes his cup and saucer against the table so heavily the saucer splits in two; he only just manages to save the cup before it tips over. “If I tell you I want to hear no more about a subject, I would appreciate the courtesy of you acquiescing to this simple enough request!”

“Am I not owed the courtesy of being listened to?” G’raha attempts to argue, though it is a weak point that comes a few seconds too late to really hit its mark.

“I listened and I appreciated not a word of what I heard. And! Now I’ve ruined my favourite saucer. If I have to say goodbye to any of my favourite things let this one be the only one! Goodbye, fine dish!” Travyrs surges out of his seat, grabbing his cup and the two halves of his saucer as he does. 

G’raha groans in frustration and hangs his head. This attempt at saying farewell has gone about as badly as it could have gone, and still - _still_! He has words left unsaid! 

“Exarch.”

G’raha twists in his chair to look back at Travyrs, who stands on the far side of the kitchen table. His expression is not encouraging.

“You’re going to come back,” the Elf states. “If the Scions can’t keep you alive then my faith in them has clearly been misplaced.”

“This is not something they have any control over.”

“You and your damned secrets!” Travyrs spins away, resting his hands on the counter as he leans over it. “Leave. Take my blessings, my well-wishes, all the luck I might possibly possess - but you will not hear a farewell from me.”

With a heavy heart and a clouded mind, G’raha stands and slowly makes his way to the door. To leave this here will be a hurt his friend will carry for the rest of his days - but to press any further will tear what still stands between them. He steals one last glimpse at Travyrs, but the Ronkan historian is resolute: by the set of his shoulders and his shaking head G’raha knows he will hear nothing more.

“Thank you for everything, my friend.” Giving his friend a low bow reminiscent of the Source, G’raha exits without looking back.

*

“Exarch, ser! Letter for you, my lord! Arrived just this hour!” The soldier waiting atop the Crystal Tower’s outer stairs gives G’raha a quick salute before handing over the plain, folded parchment; there is no envelope or seal, and G’raha takes it with more than a touch of trepidation. Opening the two folds reveals a hastily-written note, the cursive strong and clear - and recognizable from letters G’raha had received long, long ago.

_Vauthry is the Warden. Feeding eaters to his people - influencing their minds. We’re taking care of them.  
Heading to the Ladder, following Vauthry up Mt. Gulg._   
_Might need you._   
_Vahl_

“Gods _damn_ him!””

“My lord?”

G’raha crumples the missive in his hand. Vauthry - of all souls! He’d stood before the man; had looked upon him with his very eyes! His people had worked with him for years - had trusted him! Made treaties with him! And Vauthry…!

“I must needs borrow an amaro,” he states, raising his chin to meet the soldier’s worried, intense stare. “This cannot wait.”

“Of course, my lord.” The soldier salutes and dashes down the tower stairs, leaving G’raha alone before the massive golden doors.

He’d intended to take one final walk through Syrcus Tower - had intended to tidy what mess still remains, had intended to guarantee the bowels of the tower remain locked, had intended to say one final farewell to this - this - this _home_ , this curse, this blessing, this creation more powerful than he could ever have guessed - 

No time. Vauthry will not wait forever, and Emet-Selch continues to flit about like the annoying gnat he is; G’raha’s goodbyes must stay with him.

“Mount Gulg,” he murmurs, and tosses the letter over his shoulder. If Vauthry has taken to its heights Vahl will indubitably attempt to follow, but taking an airship is out of the question. Surely there is _something_ within this ancient Ascian plaything that G’raha can co-opt for his own uses…

G’raha teleports to his Ocular one last time.

*

He reaches the Ladder shortly after Vahl and the twins reach the top of the cliff. Eager as the Scions are to see him, he is far too focused on what comes to make any attempt at conversation.

Beyond the Ladder waits Vahl, Mount Gulg, and the final Lightwarden. Beyond the Ladder waits a future for all of Norvrandt; a reckoning for the man who twisted Eulmore; hope for all who remain to carry on this fight. Beyond the Ladder waits the dreams of Cid and Nero, of Derrik and Biggs, of every soul caught up in this crazed attempt for a second chance.

Beyond the Ladder waits G’raha’s final act. 

As a boy he’d once been dared to jump into a lake but newly-frozen; the ice, being less than an ilm thick, would shatter with even the slightest pressure. As he stood upon the shore in nothing but his breeches, his hands curled into fists as he bounced from foot to foot, the anticipation had felt somewhat similar to this: excitement for the unknown, for the joy of living up to the dare, for the knowledge that his courage outweighs his fear - 

All of which combatted the unshakeable truth that what awaited him at the end of the drop would, at the very least, bridge the gap between discomfort and pain.

He’d done it, of course: heralded by the cheers and laughter from his peers, he’d dashed down the snowy beach, leapt as far and high as he could, and wrapped his arms around his shins as he cannonballed into the inky, icey water.

He still recalls the utter darkness of it; while the lake hadn’t been particularly large it had been black, black, black, and the cold had hit him like a punch to the chest. His limbs had tensed and he’d felt a moment of panic - a moment of “now you’ve done it, Raha” - before his shocked muscles finally responded and he’d floundered back to the surface. He remembers the applause as he slithered on his belly across the fragile ice, most of which cracked with every attempt to pull himself free; he remembers the whistles and laughter as he made his way back to shore and the friends awaiting him with blankets and the rest of his clothes; he remembers the sheepish grin he’d given the teacher who found him with ice coating his hair and tail.

He’d risked himself for a dare. A small little moment in a lifetime of much more important decisions; much larger dares; much more dangerous jumps.

There will be no coming back from this one. Once he steals the Light aether and escapes to the rift he will be there until the aether consumes his essence or the shock of it breaks him; he cannot say which he’d prefer, but he hopes his end will be quick. To linger in that dark, endless space - to feel the Light do to him what it has done to every soul before him - 

G’raha shudders. Better not to dwell upon it - better not to consider the means of his own end. Better to simply do what needs to be done, without considering the consequences.

“What are these, exactly?” Thancred kneels next to the Allagan machina G’raha brought with him; they hover a fulm off the ground, their tiny, mechanical wings flapping constantly to keep them aloft. “I swear I’ve seen something similar in one of Garlemald’s castrum…”

“I found them within the tower,” G’raha says, speaking quickly to divert the man’s attention. “I assumed we would want to proceed towards Mount Gulg with all haste, but I would hesitate to use airships until we test our foes’ capabilities. It would hardly do to have come so far only to come crashing down in a blaze of machinery.”

“Good point.” Thancred stands and turns to the Ladder just as the enormous Talos on either side come to a stop. The rusted gate clangs open, revealing the large, waiting platform, and Thancred grins over his shoulder. “Our turn. Straight to the top!”

G’raha silently follows the Scions, standing behind the Chais in the cool shadow of the lift. His trio of machina accompanies him like a strange gaggle of goslings. The Ladder’s gate shuts and the Talos crank the wheels; slowly they begin their ascent. All of south Kholusia lies open before them - twisted trees and parched grass, Wright and Venmont Yards and distant Eulmore, all of it growing smaller and smaller as the Ladder takes them up, up, up - 

It is G’raha’s first time seeing western Kholusia. He takes it all in, every small morsel, and wishes this ride would last just a little longer.

He will never have a chance for a second look.

*

The blonde Hume at the top of the Ladder informs them the twins and Vahl have gone on to investigate a village to the east; Urianger and Y’shtola immediately take off after them, though Thancred, Ryne, and the Chais remain at Top Rung to wait for the others. G’raha silently follows the Elf and the Mystel, taking in the alien landscape that is northern Kholusia even as he forces himself to work past that constant pull of lethargy. It has been decades since he actively worked against it for an extended period - what he’d done in Eulmore had taken an hour at best, and this promises to be a lengthy endeavor. He vaguely remembers how frustrating it had been in Tailfeather - the feeling of never being rested even after a long night’s sleep, and the aches in his limbs if he attempted too much in a day - and he hopes this will not take _too_ long. 

Does he truly wish for death over aching muscles! He laughs at the ridiculousness of it, caught by surprise at how mundane and removed his own ending seems, and covers his mouth as Urianger gives him a look. “Just a - a strange thought,” he says, straightening his shoulders and looking past the Elf towards the small village that is their destination. “My apologies.”

Urianger’s gaze lingers upon him a moment longer, but finally he turns back to watch Y’shtola engage the village’s locals. 

They find Alphinaud speaking with some of the villagers; as surprised as the boy is by G’raha’s arrival, he adjusts quickly. Learning that Vahl and Alisaie have already begun scouting to the north is less of a surprise than the realization that dozens of Eulmore’s survivors have made themselves a home atop this strange, rocky land. G’raha’s time as Exarch makes him want to extend a helping hand, to forge some sort of connection between the Crystarium and this little place, but he stops himself: it matters not what promises he makes if he will not survive to see them through to fruition.

“I shall follow after Alisaie and Vahl,” he announces. He gestures to his tiny flock of machina. “I have a theory to test.”

“Alone?” Alphinaud asks. “I don't mean to sound presumptuous, Exarch, but we have sighted more than one eater from here, and that is saying nothing of the wild beasts roaming this land. Are you certain you will be safe?”

“I shall join him,” Urianger says unexpectedly. 

Y’shtola’s tail snaps as her eyes narrow; there is a moment where G’raha expects her to also offer to come with him, but she merely crosses her arms and watches the Elf with heightened suspicion. 

“That should be more than sufficient.” Alphinaud is already turning back to the well-dressed Hume standing nearby, his mind returning to whatever they had been discussing before the rest of the Scions arrived. 

“Onwards, then,” G’raha says, beginning to walk even before Urianger reaches him. Mount Gulg floats directly ahead of them, its golden halo seeming to explode out around its crest, and the closer they come the more unbelievable it seems. The amount of power required to lift an entire mountain is beyond even G’raha’s comprehension; did Emet-Selch have a hand in this? Or is this Vauthry’s power - something different from the other Wardens, something created when man and eater combine?

“Thou art still determined to see thy path through to completion?”

“As always,” G’raha says. His voice does not shake and he shows no hesitation; he cannot help but feel a little pride at this, his greatest act. “To waver now dooms both worlds. I am here to guarantee the Light does not overwhelm Vahl before I can do my part.” He smiles gently. “Come now, Urianger - it is one life for thousands. For hundreds of thousands! One life for two worlds’ worth of lives, and every future life born from them! Surely that is an even weighing of the scales?”

“Equal or not, the quality of thy soul leaveth little room for doubt,” the Elf says slowly. “Thou art a Scion in mind, if not in title.” 

G’raha’s pace slows, but Urianger keeps walking. “A Scion…?” he repeats, immediately feeling his confidence waver. To hear such words directly from one of their members rocks him, and it takes the entire walk for G’raha to find his balance.

“Exarch!”

Alisaie and Vahl stare at him as they come over a rocky, jagged bite of land; rather than verbally explain what he’s doing so far from the Crystarium, he sends the three machina flying past them towards Mount Gulg’s floating base. Everyone turns to follow the tiny trio’s path; Alisaie curses under her breath as flying sin eaters immediately turn to intercept them. Each of the machina lasts barely a second: explosions burst across the sky as the eaters tear into them with tooth and claw.

“That worked remarkably well,” G’raha murmurs. He cannot decide if he is pleased or upset that airships won’t work; whatever the case, it delays their final confrontation a little longer. “I can confidently say flight is not an option.”

“Leaves us remarkably few other choices,” Vahl says. He gaze lingers on G’raha for an uncomfortable moment before he jerks his head towards the south. “Let’s meet up with the rest and figure out what comes next - there are too many eaters out here for comfort.”

As Vahl and Urianger move ahead, Alisaie falls into step beside G’raha. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says quietly. “This has turned into a bit of a mess. Vahl’s glad, too, of course. Just takes him a little bit to say it.”

“You think so?” G’raha keeps his voice mild, though he craves her confirmation. He certainly hadn’t seen that in Vahl’s quick glimpse - but it’s becoming only too clear to him that there is much he has missed. “We had a - a disagreement, I suppose. After Lakeland.” He slows down, allowing the pair ahead of them to widen the gap before continuing, “In attempting to summon Vahl to the First, he was my initial target. My _only_ target. Had I succeeded on my first try the rest of you would not be here.” He glances at Alisaie, who watches him curiously. “It feels fair foolish to say it, but I am not sure we would have been successful without the Scions.”

She throws her arms up in exasperation. “Thancred’s been here for _five years_ and you’re only now realizing that?”

“I’d been so focused on Vahl! Even before Rak’tika! In every text it is _Vahl_ who saves the world, with the Scions’ assistance! It is too easy, I think, to forget the part that others play in getting him where he goes.”

“ _What_ does this have to do with your disagreement? Not that I don’t love hearing I’m an afterthought, but why tell me this?”

“I told Vahl he has to let his friends and loved ones make their own decisions, even if those decisions end with their own sacrifice.” He stops walking so that he may face her directly; she does the same even as she visibly cringes. “I see you can guess how well that went.”

“It still bothers him, you know. Even here.” 

“Papalymo?” he asks. “Haurchefant?”

Alisaie crosses her arms. “Yes, but - more than that. So, so many more. I didn’t meet all of them, of course, but I imagine if you thought to ask him Vahl could recite a list of every friend he’s lost.”

“I am _not_ going to ask him.”

She snorts. “I wasn’t advising you to. I’m merely saying you cannot attach this hurt to one or two names who stand out in history. How Vahl feels about his friends is caught up in his duty, his powers, and the promises he’s made. And…” She hesitates, biting her lip as she turns to watch Vahl walk. Her voice is softer when she continues, “He _needs_ us, Exarch. To anchor him - to keep him grounded. You can only destroy so many gods before you begin to wonder what exactly you’re made of, and if we weren’t here with him I doubt he’d think himself a hero.” 

G’raha bows his head. As tempting as it is to deny her words, he has witnessed the truth of them in every interaction they’ve had. “Did he tell you this?”

“No - not directly, at least. There’s a prisoner in Ala Mhigo - a woman with a fabricated Echo. You know that thing he can do where he sees other people’s pasts? _She_ got to see _his_.” Alisaie shudders. “Not pleasant. For her, for him, and for everyone who heard about it.” She resumes walking south and G’raha joins her. “He wants to be normal, Exarch. He wants to be just one more face in the crowd. With us here he can at least pretend we’re his equals, and if that’s what it takes to keep him sane I’m more than happy to do it.”

G’raha stays silent as he mulls over the wealth of information she’d dropped upon him. Perhaps understanding the volatile storm of emotions churning within him, Alisaie speeds up to give him a little privacy.

“To keep him _sane_ ,” he murmurs, and grits his teeth. By the Twelve, he needs to stop asking questions he can’t handle the answers to! With his hands curled into fists and his heart choking his breath, he doggedly follows after the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kholusia is gonna be lengthy. Next chapter is looking like 5000 words no matter how I edit it, and the one after is about the same. 
> 
> Basically I'm living on Mt Gulg now. Send help.
> 
> ALSO send me your opinions, please: how do you feel about fics that change their rating from M to E after 190k words...? Asking for a friend.  
> (I am the friend.)


	55. Calm Before the Storm

When an opportunity to travel with Vahl drops into G’raha’s lap he immediately takes it, jumping at what might very well be his final chance to explore. He is perhaps not the best person to go forth on this particular quest - his knowledge of Dwarves is patchy at best, and the more he moves the harder it becomes to fight against the constant ache in his legs and chest - but no one else is free to volunteer.

One last simple adventure. One last walk together.

Of course it is anything but quiet with sin eaters and wild creatures roaming the lands between Amity and the Dwarf village of Tomra, but G’raha isn’t worried. Sin eaters against himself and Vahl? They might as well be flies for all the care G’raha has for them.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Vahl says after they dispatch a particularly weak duo of snarling, wolf-like eaters. “Granson and I are still working together on the Dikaiosyne problem. He’s asked me to meet him in Il Mheg. Hopefully I’ll have a chance after we’ve put an end to Vauthry.” He rolls his shoulders in a stretch before glancing toward G’raha. “I know I’ve asked you this before, but - Ardbert. You said you know very little of him. What _do_ you know?”

Odd as the question is for the time and place, G’raha suspects Vahl wouldn’t be asking if he didn’t have reasons. Dredging through his scattered memories from this world and the Source, G’raha attempts to put them together into something sensible. “He led the Warriors of Light against the Shadowkeeper. Prior to the Flood he was regarded quite highly, but once the Light began to consume this world opinions quickly changed. He and his friends vanished, and - as we know - were tricked by Elidibus into pursuing you on the Source.” He pauses. There is more he could say, but at this point he wanders into the realm of conjecture and assumption, and he can tell that isn’t what Vahl is looking for. “Might I know why you ask?”

“I - I wish I knew,” Vahl says with a self-conscious smile. “I wish I could tell you. There’s a - a fascination, I suppose, with this soul who was so like to me but - but not.” The smile becomes crooked. “He looked like me, you know? Shorter, and he shaved more often, but we could have been brothers.” Vahl suddenly looks away, seeming almost to scan the wilds around them for listening ears, and when he speaks again it is in a whisper. “I’m a little jealous of him.”

G’raha narrows his eyes. Following Vahl’s train of thought is not an easy process. “Because he shaved?”

“Gods!” Vahl suddenly laughs, dispersing the air of brooding that had been hanging over his head ever since G’raha found him north of Amity, and he rubs his gloved hands over both sides of his scruffy jaw. “I’m quite proud of this, whatever Shtola might say.” He sighs and drops his hands. “I’m jealous because he didn’t do it alone. I can’t imagine what my life might have been like had I another Warrior of Light along for the journey, let alone _four_ of them. I don’t mean to disregard the Scions and all they’ve done - they are amazing friends, and I know I would not be where I am without them, but -”

“But they do not hear Hydaelyn’s voice,” G’raha finishes for him. He recalls what Alisaie told him the day before with more than a touch of trepidation: she hadn’t been entirely right. “They do not fight gods.”

“Yes,” Vahl murmurs. “Exactly that.”

They come around a bend in the road and find the green village of Tomra not far ahead; Dwarves in horned helmets with long, wagging beards go about their business as strange mechanical creations zoom back and forth between buildings. A shout goes up from one of the large pillars within Tomra itself and G’raha watches heads turn in their direction.

“I know even less about Dwarves than I do Ardbert,” G’raha murmurs, scanning the village for any sign of animosity. “Would you prefer to take the lead, or shall I?”

Vahl’s blue eyes shift to him. “Let’s see how they react to you. You’re - more on their level, so to speak.”

Laughter tickles the back of G’raha’s throat, though he does his best not to show it. He’d endured Vahl’s jokes about his height back on the Source, too - but to reply now as he would back then would surely give him away. Quickening his pace, he leads them on to meet whoever this Dwarf might be - 

Though he does parcel certain information away. Later - if he is gifted with a _later_ \- he must try to warn Alisaie.

*

Their journey for a Talos heart takes them east, across rocky, rolling land covered by beasts and plagued by eaters. A young Dwarf named Korutt accompanies them, and though he is more a liability than he is a help G'raha is grateful he’s there. It gives him time to think, and he is not sure how much more of that he’ll be gifted with before the end.

He makes it as far as the Duergar’s Tewel before exhaustion begins to pull at him so fiercely he can no longer ignore it. He sends Korutt and Vahl out under a glamour of invisibility, trusting that they can handle the acquisition part of this adventure, and sinks to his knees the moment they’re both out of sight.

“Gods, gods, gods,” he murmurs, digging his fingers into the coarse dirt as wave after wave of nausea and vertigo rock him like a buoy in a storm. Cold sweat slickens his skin even as bile teases the back of his throat: this is much, much worse than the last time he felt such weakness. Time passes at a snail’s pace as he struggles to maintain his grip on reality - or it _seems_ to. He hears approaching footsteps far earlier than he expects them, and though he tries to push himself to his feet the strength is not there: he stays on all fours as the approaching sounds pick up speed.

“Exarch!”

“I’m fine,” he says stubbornly, pretending as though his vision is not made of stars and spots. “I’m _fine_.”

“You’re clearly not!” Someone kneels before him; he feels warm hands against his shoulders. “What can I do?”

He shakes his head frantically, unable to get in a word as he gasps for breath. The world swims before his eyes and he squeezes them shut, though his head continues to swirl round and round and it is much less nauseating to have his eyes open. It is a mercy that his hood still covers his face, but that is the only pleasant thought he can manage. 

“Is he okay, Mister Vahl? Did someone hurt him?”

“No, Korutt,” G’raha gasps. “I have not been away from my tower in quite some time. I - I fear all the excitement has caught up with me.”

“That bloody tower,” Vahl growls. He curses before giving G’raha a gentle shake. “I’ll ask again: what can I do?”

“Nothing - nothing, it will pass.” How long until it passes completely is a mystery, but already the worst of it begins to leave him. He carefully sits on his heels, resting his palms atop his thighs as he gulps in great mouthfuls of air and tries not to acknowledge the shame burrowing through him. He risks a glance upwards - and freezes as he stares directly into Vahl’s face, barely a few ilms away from his own. A sudden _thump - thump - thump_ fills his ears as his heartbeat quickens, and it is all he can do not to lick suddenly-dry lips. He swallows hard, allowing his gaze to rapidly scan the tanned cheeks, scruffy jaw, and dark brows before finally coming to rest upon those brilliant, bright blue eyes. “I am fine, Vahl.”

For a brief flicker of a moment he thinks Vahl will lean forward - will peer beneath the cowl - and in that moment G’raha is not quite sure he would have pulled away. 

It passes quick as it came. Vahl lets go of him and stands, and G’raha exhales as he drops his chin to his chest.

Too close. Too foolish. He cannot throw it away now.

“Korutt, we’re going to make our way back to Tomra,” Vahl says, and though he speaks to the Dwarf G’raha knows he’s still looking at him. “And you, Exarch? Will you join us?”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t have the energy for Tomra, not on his own two legs. “I’ll take the ore to Amity.”

“Exarch -”

“Vahl.” He staggers upright; though there is a moment when the world spins, he manages to keep his feet. “It is not far, and already my strength returns. My story will not end here - not here, and not now.” He forces himself to smile down at Korutt. “Thank you for accompanying us today.”

“Thank you for the adventure, Mister Exarch!” The young Dwarf begins to waddle away, his spirits already high at the prospect of returning home, but Vahl doesn’t immediately follow. He leans close to G’raha, his bright eyes serious as he hands over the ore known as earthseed.

“I like this not at all,” Vahl murmurs. “If you get lost out there I’m going to be _furious_ when I drag your ass back to Amity.”

G’raha waits until Vahl hurries after the Dwarf before allowing himself a grin. What a sight that would be! The Warrior of Darkness carrying the Crystal Exarch back to civilization! It will never happen, of course, but the mental image manages to push aside the last of his exhaustion - at least temporarily - and G’raha slowly begins to make his way back across the barren, hilly earth.

*

“Vahl should return shortly,” G’raha announces, passing the strange ore off to Y’shtola as he meets the gathering crowd. A frenzy of activity centres around Chai-Nuzz, who has a collection of large sheets of vellum spread across a trio of boxes; he frantically writes and smudges away notes with a stick of charcoal. 

“My thanks,” Y’shtola says, pocketing the ore. She frowns; were she not blind G’raha would think she was looking him over. “There is still some work to be done before we can progress to the next step. There is plenty of time for a rest, should one be required.”

“That is a very polite way of telling me to sit down before I fall down,” G’raha says with a smile. “I may take you up on that offer - if you are sure I will not be needed?”

“Take your time. I will even promise to look for you before we raise the Talos.”

He bows low. “Most gracious. In that case I think I shall find a quieter place.” 

She arches an eyebrow but makes no comment; she and the large Ronso beside her watch him leave. Dulia-Chai waves happily at him as he passes, and he waves back - though they have never been introduced, he understands he is easy enough to recognize - and then he is heading south, past the low wooden fence surrounding Amity and out towards a jutting edge of the cliff. 

He’d noticed it from below as he approached the Ladder: like the prow of an enormous boat, a long space of earth extends out from the cliff over southern Kholusia. Even with wild Talos and the odd noxious huldu prowling the ledge he can’t help but think it a very quiet place to take his rest - and the _view_! All of Kholusia laid out beneath his feet, with bright Eulmore straight ahead! It is a dizzying, logic-defying drop to land far below, to the trees and parched grass that makes up the Humes’ half of this land. He idly considers tossing a rock off the ledge and timing how long it takes to fall, but a wave of dizziness steers him away from the edge into the safety of the widest part of land. He lowers himself behind a large mound of jutting rock, resting against its jagged edge as he curls his feet beneath him, and sighs contentedly.

All in all it has been a very grand first adventure in Norvrandt. He met dozens of new people, was the first of the Crystarium to venture within Tomra, traveled with new companions, and slew hordes of eaters - most of which he was lucky enough to do with Vahl by his side! The constant drain of energy from missing his tower had not been a wonderful sensation, no, but aside from that little has gone wrong this day.

He leans his head back against the rock and closes his eyes. What he would not give for more of the same! For the chance to venture through Il Mheg and Amh Araeng! To traverse the winding pathways through Rak’tika! To visit Eulmore - truly, not with magic and false pretenses! To spend days on the road with only the food in his pack and his own survival skills; to encounter strangers and do what he might to assist them; to battle strange creatures and make fascinating discovers!

To experience all of it with Vahl by his side and then, when done, return to the bed they share before rising to do it all over again.

Under the warmth of the Light and the stillness of the wind, it is not long before he feels himself begin to nod off. Rather than fight that pull he gives in to it, thinking to accept this opportunity for the smallest of naps before whatever comes.

Alone on the jutting spear of land, G’raha sleeps.

*

Mor Dhona stretches out all around him. Twisted, gnarled trees grasp up and out over a mottled land soaked with colour; crystals pulse and glow in the distance, and the sky is a mess of purples and blues. To his right he can see Midgardsormr wrapped tight around the Agrius’s hull, his skeletal wings still poised high above the lake; to his left are the familiar tents and huts that made up Saint Coinach’s Find.

This is Mor Dhona before the Calamity.

G’raha turns on the spot. Revenant’s Toll is behind him, its tall grey walls a welcome sight after the red nightmare it had become, and the ruins of Garlean tech litter the rolling, blast-ridden land. Distantly he sees the glowing outline of his tower, but he turns away from it. He would rather look at new-old things, at this land he has not witnessed in almost a century. It is all familiar - like a dream he is dreaming once again - but for the complete lack of any other soul. Whether man or beast, not a single being stirs save for G’raha himself.

His feet lead him to Saint Coinach’s Find. It is eerily quiet; G’raha has never seen it void of its researchers and adventurers. It had been a small hub on the outskirts of this wild land, a gathering constantly under threat from hippogryphs and giants and all manner of beasts from the lake, but it had also been a focal point in his time in Eorzea. 

This is where he made his choice. 

This is where he and Vahl first…

He wanders among the tents, peaking within one in particular - but he knew even before looked that he would find nothing. There are no belongings; no rations; no books or scrolls; this place is utterly deserted.

With a single glance back at Revenant’s Toll, G’raha sighs and squares his shoulders. He _could_ look at the fortress-turned-town, investigate the Rising Stones, check to see if perhaps even Rowena has vanished - but he knows it will be just as empty as Saint Coinach’s Find.

His destiny has always led to Syrcus Tower.

Without giants or other beasts to hamper his advance he makes good time through the ancient ruins along the eastern shore, passing over old, cobbled roads and under the remains of arches and pillars. His footsteps are unusually loud and they echo when they shouldn’t, but he accepts it as one of the oddities of this place. His journey through the narrow pass is faster than it should have been, and the strange Allagan gate no longer bares his way, but before he can wonder why he notices the old, crumbled statues - the eight sentinels they had been forced to break to approach the tower - and the translucent portal beyond them. With no other hints as to where to go he takes the portal across the Trench, bypassing the labyrinth underneath it to arrive in the dark passageway that leads to the tower itself.

He is not alone.

The five silhouettes ahead of him are achingly familiar. Four of them stand with their backs to him, their gazes fixed on the towering double doors before them, while the fifth…

G’raha doesn’t want to go any further. He doesn’t want to know what happened after he locked the doors, after he said his final farewell, after he turned his back on the Warrior of Light - 

What _had_ he said? What had he told them before the doors closed? As tears welled in Vahl’s eyes and Cid desperately attempted to convince G’raha to choose another path? There’d been history, of course; history revealed by the surge of memories his blood had imparted to him, history of the tower and Allag and the hopes of those who came before - but one of the last things he’d said had driven Vahl to his knees.

He should have talked to him the night before. He should have told him the thoughts winding through his head. They’d loved each other! They’d trusted each other! And, the very day after their victorious return from the Thirteenth, G’raha had stolen their future together from the man he loved most.

“Ah,” he murmurs, the memories suddenly returning. “That was it.” He tilts his head back, looking up, up, up - trying not to see, though he knows Vahl is on his hands and knees - 

“Exarch!”

*

G’raha opens his eyes. Vahl kneels at his side, the endless, rolling clouds of Light behind him; his hand rests on G’raha’s knee.

“Ah, gods take me.” G’raha pushes himself back, attempting to inch away from Vahl’s touch. The rock digs into his shoulders and he stops his struggle; he gives his head a shake as he groggily tries to cross the divide between dreams and waking. “My apologies. I thought to take the briefest of naps - and look at the state of me!”

“Is this where I throw you over my shoulder and carry you to civilization?” Though Vahl asks it calmly, the glint in his eyes reveals he is not far from making his threat a reality. “You mentioned something about the tower causing this weakness?”

“Indeed.” With a groan he holds his crystal hand out between them, gently wiggling his fingers as Vahl’s gaze moves from his hood to his hand. “A price to be paid, I fear. Power and immortality do not come cheap.”

“You chose this?”

“I was not initially aware of the cost, but I have what I wanted: I have lived to shepherd the First towards salvation. It would not have been possible had I not taken the risk.” He lowers his hand and smiles sadly at Vahl. “I believe you know something of responsibility - of the burden it might become, even for those of us long-accustomed to its weight.”

Vahl inclines his head. “Rather more than I would wish, in truth, but such is the way of things.” He glances past the rock towards Amity. “It won’t be long now, I think. All the teams are finally coming together - most of Norvrandt is there! Everyone I worked with…” He trails off. “I never would have expected it.”

“That their legend would be correct? Or that it would be you?”

“I…” Vahl frowns. He quickly twists around, dropping onto the ground next to G’raha. “All of it. Every second of this adventure! But it is nearly over. Soon all of this…” He waves his hand at the sky, “...will be just another memory.”

G’raha knows Vahl does not mean to include him in that lazy wave, but it hurts regardless of intention. He looks away, biting his lip as his gaze travels over the land spread below them, and frantically throws his mind towards anything that might distract him - but Vahl looms large in his thoughts. There are no easy exits here.

“Emet-Selch spoke with me at the Ladder,” Vahl murmurs suddenly, providing G’raha with a distraction he is not entirely happy to hear. “He’s playing games - trying to get inside my head. Not that I’m surprised - he’s been doing just that ever since he introduced himself - but I hadn’t expected him to seek me out here, of all places.” He glances at G’raha. “He mentioned you. Implied it’s unusual that I don’t know who you are.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?” G’raha murmurs. He has never detested a soul quite as much as he has this Ascian.

“It’s strange,” Vahl continues, his voice softer. “I should hate him. I should want nothing more than to end him and everything to do with him, just as I would with any Ascian, but…” He sighs explosively. “I can’t help feeling sorry for him.”

G’raha chokes. Here he is, trying not to think of ways to exact a fitting revenge upon the monster who brought about such suffering, and Vahl says _that?_ “Sympathy for him? _Him_?”

“Mad, I know, but can you imagine being alone as long as he has? If he is who he says he is, and the world was what he says it was, I can’t help but feel a touch of pity. Who _wouldn’t_ try to save the world they loved - or at least attempt to put it back together?”

G’raha bites his tongue. They are _not_ the same. What Emet-Selch has done to bring back his people goes so far beyond G’raha’s own struggles as to be incomparable. G’raha hasn’t annihilated worlds! He hasn’t destroyed civilizations! He does this to _save_ lives, not end them!

But he _might_ destroy one world. He has no idea if averting the Calamity will erase the Source's future timeline or allow it to continue on like a thread torn from a tapestry; there is no way to know if he condemns every life in that world to death should he continue here. The Ironworks deemed it a worthy risk, but he remembers the Elezen of Ishgard; the Blue Imps; every gathering of souls who decided to fight for their wrecked world, rather than return to the past in an attempt to undo everything that brought them there.

_They are not the same._ He is _not_ doing what the Ascians are doing.

He is not like _them_.

G’raha grits his teeth, hoping to find a happy medium between empathizing with an Ascian and not being hypocritical, and in his silence Vahl keeps speaking.

“He’s going about it the wrong way, of course, and I’m not about to condone the actions he’s taken, but - but a part of me _understands_. Lost friends, lost family, lost loves - how am I to know how far I’d go to bring it back? I’m in no position to judge.” Vahl runs a hand through his hair and rests his head against the rock. “I can't help wanting to put him out of his misery - like we’d be doing him a favour, I suppose. Whether he knows it or not.”

“He doesn’t deserve mercy.”

“All a matter of perspective,” Vahl says, but it comes out oddly - as if he’s quoting someone else, someone G’raha doesn’t know, and before he can ask Vahl glances at him with a wry grin. “I don’t mind not having seen your face, you know. I didn’t know who Lyse was for ages, and Estinien was little more than a chin for the majority of our travels together. I _still_ haven’t seen Biggs and Wedge with their goggles off. I figure everyone has their reasons, and if I needed to know you’d have told me already.”

G’raha clamps his jaw shut. What an invitation! There would never be a better time to throw back his hood - alone as they are, he is quite sure the revelation would be met with a response worthy of his last day alive - 

But there is that damned responsibility rearing its ugly head. Revealing himself now would help neither of them. He doesn’t need one last kiss - addictive as they are, he doubts it would bolster his resolve in the least!

But if this _is_ their last chance to talk, he might as well take one small risk.

“I have a question, if I may,” he says, staring hard at the ground. “It is a rather personal question, so I understand if you would prefer not to answer it, but it has been on my mind ever since our first day together.”

“Now seems as good a time as any,” Vahl replies. “Let’s have it.”

“The words you said upon witnessing my tower stuck with me,” G’raha murmurs. He keeps his eyes away from Vahl, worried that his resolve may crumble if he witnesses the Hume’s reaction. “You demanded to know if I had found a red-haired, red-eyed Mystel - a Miqo’te, rather.”

“I did.” Vahl’s reply is low. “What of it?”

The lies tumble out of him in a rush. “You - you must understand - I had ways of learning about you. Whether through my mirror or by bridging the rift to bring back texts and histories, I devoured every fact I could possibly find. In no text did it ever mention anyone you knew being locked within the Crystal Tower.” He wraps his arms around his knees, hugging his legs in an attempt to hide the jittery nerves that demand he fidget. This answer will hurt. This answer will reveal far more than he’s comfortable hearing - but he has wondered about this answer since Eight Sentinels. If he doesn’t ask now, he never will. “Why?”

“Thal’s balls, but you really know how to rip the heart out of a man.” Vahl braces his hands on either side of his head, and there is a moment where G’raha expects him to refuse to answer - but he eventually speaks in a soft, deep murmur, as though recalling something he’d long managed to forget. “I ordered it done - his name scratched from my history, removed as thoroughly and extensively as I could possibly manage it. Cid has his own records, of course, but he promised he’d keep them hidden.” His sigh is long and lingering. “There were two reasons. First - and easiest to explain to the historians who resisted all attempts to alter their words - was my desire for him to live outside of my shadow. He deserves to be known by his own name - for his own deeds - and I’m not so blind as to not understand the type of person I am. Anyone associated with me becomes _Vahl’s friend, Vahl’s healer, Vahl’s_ -” He cuts himself off and awkwardly clears his throat. “He isn’t _mine_. What good he does for the future deserves to be recognized free of my name.”

G’raha’s teeth have dug so far into his lip as to draw blood; his nails curl into his palms; he has to remind himself to breathe. He knew this already, having read the passage Kokoju found in Idyllshire - the small blurb of text alluding to Vahl’s wishes that G’raha be known as a Hero in his own right - but hearing it from Vahl himself is another thing entirely.

“The other reason is - well. Cid thought it an overreaction.” Vahl’s voice is bitter. “You know what Ascians are capable of, I take it? Whatever Emet-Selch pretends to be, most are not like him.”

“I am well aware of what Emet-Selch is capable of.”

“Then you must have some idea already of why I wanted those texts erased.” Vahl glances at him and, evidently reading confusion in G’raha’s frown, tries to explain. “To the Ascians I quickly became - _infamous_ , I suppose. Known and named and hated. That trick Lahabrea pulled with Thancred made it obvious they were willing to play the darkest kinds of games, and I either had to step up or watch those I care for be thrown into my mess, like pawns or - or _bait_. I had no way of knowing if they were capable of opening Syrcus Tower - no way of knowing if they could bring it down, or nullify its magic, or sneak inside and...and find...” He curses and looks away. “Erasing our history together kept him safe. The Ascians never learned of him, and even if we cannot be together I still know he’s alive.” Vahl’s voice fades to a whisper. “It’s the very least I could do.”

G’raha pushes the heels of his hands against his eyelids in a desperate attempt to stop the tears that bubble up; it is a small mercy that Vahl is not looking at him. For Vahl to think of him - to care for him even after being left begging on his knees as the doors locked in his face…! 

He hadn’t erased G’raha from history to forget their time together - he’d done it to _keep G’raha alive_.

It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair, _it isn’t fair_ \- not to him or Vahl! It isn’t fair that they should be put through such nightmares! Have they not attempted to better the world? What Mother is Hydaelyn that her Blessing is a curse so foul as this?

Anger quickly overpowers sadness. Anger that the Ascians forced Vahl’s hand; anger that even after G’raha left Vahl was still tasked with protecting him; anger because G’raha is _done_ with these Ascians’ convoluted games! Whether he is G’raha Tia or the Crystal Exarch it seems he is destined to draw their attention no matter where he goes! 

At least - _this iteration_ of himself will draw their attention. If Vahl can return to the Source and open the Crystal Tower, awakening the still-sleeping G’raha Tia from his own timeline, mayhap _that_ form will be blessed with an easier life.

After the Calamity is averted. After the Warden dies. After G’raha is gone.

“I hope you have the chance to see your friend again,” G’raha says. Somehow his voice is steady. 

Vahl rises to his feet in a surge of dark leather and metal. “Were he here no doubt he’d tell me to pull up my breeches and make a race of it - ‘last one to the Warden buys dinner’, or something of the sort.” The Warrior turns to look at Mt. Gulg, a bittersweet smile lifting the corners of his lips. “I think I’d let him win. I owe him quite a few dinners.”

G’raha ducks his head. Is that laughter or a sob fighting to break free? He doesn’t dare reply because he cannot guarantee what noise will come out of him.

“Come on, then. We don’t want them to leave without us.”

He looks up to find Vahl’s hand outstretched before him. He blinks at it, caught somewhere between craving that touch and dreading it, before he reaches with his crystal hand. Vahl pulls him to his feet, pats his shoulder encouragingly, and turns to begin the trek back to Amity.

G’raha takes a moment to himself before following. He stares up at Mt. Gulg, at the floating rays of gold encircling it like a crown of golden thorns, and a new type of regret surges up to overpower the self-pity that has been all-too-familiar of late. As he thinks of past Calamities, of Allag and Garlemald and the Flood that nearly ravaged this world, he realizes there is still one more thing he wishes he could do before the very end - but he trusts that others will see it through.

If G’raha cannot be the one to give the Ascians the deaths they deserve, he knows Vahl will do it for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m gonna say this two weeks early because the following two chapters are, um, not the place to put happy notes (what could that _possibly_ mean, macc?) -
> 
> Thank you. Thank you for making this a fic I can’t wait to come back to, to keep working on, to update on schedule. Thank you for encouragement and engagement and feedback, for so much love I hardly know what to do with it. Whether you’re new to it or you’ve been reading along for a year (a _year?!_ ) I appreciate you to the moon and back. This year has been one of the strangest, most difficult years of my life (and I know I’m not alone in that), but working on this has been a wonderful escape, and I hope I won’t let you down in future chapters!
> 
> (In case you're wondering - the scene before Mt Gulg is one of my favourite scenes in canon. It was also the scene where I went "Exarch is 100% G'raha" after one line of dialogue, so it had to be changed. Sad.)


	56. The Life and Times of G'raha Tia

Vahl and the Scions leave for Mt. Gulg under a boisterous, heart-warming fanfare from the citizens of Amity and every soul who’d come up the Ladder to help. G’raha is one face among the crowd, one more person wishing them luck and success, but he is one of the few Vahl looks to before he leaves. Confusion momentarily creases the Warrior’s forehead and G’raha has a sudden fear that Vahl will insist G’raha joins them, but they carry on without him.

He will see them soon enough.

It isn’t long before swarms of eaters begin to descend in patterns along the Talos’s body; they steadily rise higher and higher, proceeding ever closer to the floating mountain as they chase the Scions up, and G’raha eventually judges it time to quietly make his exit from Amity. He leaves without a single farewell, and if anyone marks his departure no one tries to stop him. 

He came to Norvrandt alone. It is only fitting he departs the same way. 

The nerves coursing through him are a strange mixture of excitement, foreboding, and the bizarre hope that _something else_ might happen - that this final act might be delayed, or that Vahl might channel the Light into another source, or -

He tries not to give in to that kind of hope. 

There is little to bar his path as he begins his ascent up the Talos. The eaters are gone, utterly decimated by the Scions and Titania’s bands of roaming amaro, and all G’raha must do is keep walking. 

What a task! To put one foot in front of the other! He knew this would not be easy, but this long climb surpasses all of his expectations. Knowing the end is near, his own regrets and desires swarm to meet him, tumbling through his mind and heart with a chorus of _if only, if only, if only..._

No! He will not spend this last journey falling face-first into misery! He has lived a long, wondrous life - a life that defied all expectations! A life which, from the very beginning, was filled with joy and warmth! A life he is proud to have lived!

And this, this ending - whether he wants it or not, he is proud of this, too! He has orchestrated the salvation of two worlds! This dream carried across time and the rift is finally coming to its end, and _gods_ \- if he doesn’t wish Cid and Nero were here to see it! 

Not just Cid and Nero - not just Derrik and Biggs - 

_All of them._ His friends and family from back home, his companions from the Circle of Knowing, Rammbroes, Cid, Nero, Biggs and Wedge - 

Derrik, Biggs the Third, Hollwyda, Kokoju and Dolala, Chalvatot and Clechette, Nalza, W’cheruh and W’muhj, Dominic -

Rhongomiant and Rholont, and every Elezen and dragon who’d wished him well north of Coerthas - 

Ferro, Sanga-Vri, Orlyg -

Travyrs and Lyna -

Past blurs with present, and rather than resist the memories G’raha gives in to the desire for comfort -

For one last recollection of yesterday before journey’s end. 

_Turning a page in the first book he ever read, and the dawning realization that so many little worlds could be contained between the covers -_

_Holding his very own bow - the wood in one hand and the string against his fingertips, sighting the target and letting fire -_

_His mother telling him he can't always be a daredevil, and the cheeky grin he’d given her -_

_He doesn’t remember the name of the first boy he kissed, but he remembers where: on the banks of a river not far from his home, under a massive looming tree with spindly branches trailing over their heads, hidden from the world by a curtain of pale green leaves. The boy is a friend from a neighbouring Miqo’te tribe, a blond singer who’d caught G’raha’s eyes and ears when he_ **_should_ ** _have been studying, and his back’s against the tree as G’raha leans forward -_

_Butterflies in his stomach, his tail curling behind him, the blush creeping up his cheeks -_

_Grinning at the boy afterwards, suddenly too wild-shy for words -_

_G’raha enters Gridania slowly, taking his time as he absorbs all of the new sights and sounds and smells. The Aetheryte Plaza ahead is bustling with activity; adventurers and merchants and all manner of shoppers are still out even at this late hour. Warm yellow lights brighten the green pathways and a beautiful, star-filled sky paints a speckled backdrop behind the silhouette of leaves overhead; he’ll rent a room at the inn when he’s ready for it, but for now he’s content to watch._

_Eorzea feels just like the adventure he’s been waiting for! He is excited to see the other city-states, to travel the wilds between them, to wander through the forests and deserts and plains - he cannot wait to take in every morsel of this journey! And Syrcus Tower, of course! Mor Dhona and that Allagan mystery!_

_He cannot wait for what tomorrow brings._

_“Hey!”_

_G’raha turns back to the door of the Seventh Heaven tavern just in time to watch Vahl squeeze through a crowd heading inside. He stops where he is on the road out to Saint Coinach’s Find, tail twitching anxiously, and waits for the Warrior to catch up to him. Revenant’s Toll is noisy even at this hour - amber lights banish every hint of night, and the tavern is still just as busy as it was when they entered before sunset - but they have a small sea of calm space to themselves near the settlement's outer wall._

_“I forgot to ask,” Vahl says, jogging over with a grin. “You’re staying, right? You’ll be around even before we make our way into the tower?”_

_“I’m here as long as I need to be,” G’raha answers, pretending as though the Hyur’s questions don’t cause a small burst of warmth to blossom in his chest. “I have a tent at Saint Coinach’s Find.”_

_“A tent!” Dismay momentarily creases the Warrior’s forehead. “Well. I have some business to take care of with the Scions, but it shouldn’t take more than a week. If you want someone to show you around Eorzea I’m more than happy to play the part of tour guide.”_

_“Really?” G’raha grins. “And where would you take me, oh Tour Guide of Light?”_

_“Taverns. Tavern after tavern after tavern. And! There’s a set of ruins in Gridania I think you’ll like - not Allagan, unfortunately, but they just keep going and going…!”_

_“I_ **_do_ ** _love ancient ruins,” G’raha laughs. “If you have time to spare, of course!”_

_“Time to spare? For you, Mister Tia, always.”_

_The flush that covers his face is no doubt a revealing shade of crimson._ **_Mister Tia?_ ** _He has to make his escape before the flattery encourages him to do something asinine. “I don’t want to keep you, Vahl, not if you have to -”_

_“You’re not keeping me anywhere I don’t want to be.” Vahl steps forward, cocking his head to one side as he moves just an ilm into G’raha's personal space. “Though if you’d prefer I left you alone…”_

_“No -” Too fast. Too obvious. G’raha swallows hard. Why is he so flustered? Why is his stomach curling into knots? He leans back, suddenly realizing how tall this Hyur truly is, and_ **_gods_ ** _\- if he doesn’t want to just climb him…! “No. I think I’d prefer if you stayed.”_ **_Please, please stay._ **

_“I can’t be here long, but -” Vahl’s finger rests beneath G’raha’s chin, tilting his head up as the Warrior steps toe-to-toe with him. His voice is quiet and deep, calm and controlled and smooth as velvet. “Before I leave - I’d like to kiss you.”_

_G’raha grins with cocky, half-lidded eyes, his elation burning away his anxiety in an instant, and he grabs Vahl’s belt to pull him even closer. “Then do it, Warrior of Light. You have my permission.”_

_Vahl mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Redheads,” before he leans forward and G’raha’s capacity for rational thought takes a sharp turn to nowhere. His entire focus is drawn to this moment - this touch - this gentle, testing taste -_

_Vahl slowly breaks away, lifting his head even as his hand remains under G’raha’s chin. “Sleep well - G’raha Tia.”_

_A head pops into G’raha’s tent and he sits upright in his bedroll, clasping his open book against his bare chest as he gapes at Vahl’s bright blue eyes. The Hyur's black hair vanishes into the midnight sky behind him; most of the camp at Saint Coinach's Find has been asleep for hours, and G'raha had assumed the footsteps approaching his slightly-removed tent belonged to someone making their way to the distant privy.  
_

_“I wondered which tent was yours,” the Warrior whispers with a grin. "Lucky first guess!"  
_

_“What are you doing here?” G’raha hisses, his heart thumping so fast he’s surprised Vahl doesn’t hear it. They haven’t seen each other since Vahl kissed him outside of the Rising Stones two days past; G’raha’s imagination has conjured the Warrior’s face often enough in the last forty-odd hours he half-expects this, too, to be an illusion._

_“Finished my business early,” the Warrior says, his eyes taking on a wild glint. “Thought I might drop by.”_

_“Well. Well, good!” G’raha clears his throat and looks around his small tent. There is a lamp near him, his travelling pack to his side, and stacks of books behind him, but most of the ground is taken up by his bedroll. “Do you - do you want to come in?”_

_“Thought you’d never ask.” Vahl slides inside, dropping to his knees to avoid the low tent ceiling, and G’raha realizes the Hyur isn’t wearing his big, bulky armour. His tunic and breeches are plain and dark; G’raha can’t help noticing the sleeves tugging tight around his arms, or the dips around his neck where his collarbone -_

_“I like it,” Vahl murmurs, pulling G’raha’s attention to his face. “Cosy.”_

_“Hmm, yes.” G’raha knows his cheeks match his hair but there is little he can do; liquid heat tumbles and twists through his abdomen as he attempts to control himself. “I’m sorry I don’t have anywhere for you to sit -”_

_Vahl tilts his head to one side, smiling at him through his dark hair. “I wasn’t really interested in_ **_sitting_** _, if you catch my meaning.” He jerks his chin towards G’raha’s bedroll. “That’s more than big enough for two.”_

_Every single thought in G’raha’s sleepy head scatters to the wind. He gapes like a fool, mouth wide and tail twitching anxiously as he struggles to think of a single smart response to impress this forward, handsome Hyur - and what comes out is anything but clever._

_“I do sleep naked,” he blurts, and feels the flush spread to cover his face from his neck to the roots of his hair; his ears lie flat against his head. “If that - if that makes you uncomfortable - I mean - I could find clothing - I could go - maybe I should go -”_

_Vahl leans forward, resting his hand atop the bedroll - with G’raha’s thigh underneath. “To be honest, that saves me a little work.”_

_“Saves you…?” G’raha’s tail twitches even faster as that heat again pulses through his abdomen. Why does he feel like a bumbling fool? He’s done this before! He’s done this a-plenty! Just play the game! Drag in some confidence! He swallows hard and tries again. “Are you suggesting I invite you into my bed, dear Warrior of Light?”_

_“I could order it, if you’d rather,” Vahl returns. “But yes, G’raha - if you want me.”_

**_If_ ** _G’raha wants him? Has Vahl ever looked in a mirror? Has he ever listened to his own low, rumbling voice? Has he ever watched himself fight, or noticed his own biceps under tight, black cloth, or -_

_“Yes,” G’raha exclaims as his ears perk up. “Gods, yes - get in, fast as you please.”_

_“Now_ **_he’s_ ** _giving orders!” Vahl teases. “I could grow accustomed to that.”_

_“I didn’t mean -” Vahl’s lips meet his and he forgets what he was apologizing for, forgets everything except this Hyur, this Warrior, these lips and that tongue and the hands against his chest - over his arms - cradling his cheeks -_

_They come up for air, breaking apart in the small tent with G’raha still seated and Vahl on his knees. Their panting breaths seem almost as loud as G’raha’s own heartbeat and there’s a moment of disbelief - of complete and utter surprise that the Warrior of Light picked_ **_him_ ** _\- and then Vahl’s lifting his shirt over his head and G’raha’s flinging his book into the corner of the tent even as his legs kick out the bedroll in a failed attempt to widen it -_

_“Budge over,” Vahl murmurs, his mouth against G’raha’s ear. “Just a tad.”_

_“Right,” G’raha whispers, as if he has a tad to move, and squishes himself against the edge of the tent as Vahl slides in next to him. The Warrior's already discarded his pants and G’raha doesn’t look, doesn’t even attempt to glimpse below the waist, doesn’t stop staring at a spot high up on his tent ceiling because he isn’t sure where to direct his gaze or his hands or -_

_“Hi.”_

_He rolls his head sideways. Vahl lies facing him, an elbow under his head as half his face is twisted in a wry grin._

_“I’m not too forward, am I?”_

_“Forward? No. No! Never crossed my mind.” G’raha clamps his lips shut, frowns, considers his options - and rolls to face Vahl. The wry grin turns into a smile of pleasure, and without thinking too hard about any of this G’raha leans forward, again meeting his lips against the Hyur’s. As Vahl kisses him back his warm fingers begin to press against G’raha’s arms and chest. There is a moment of hesitation - of nerves getting in his way - before Vahl’s knee brushes against his, their gentle kisses begin to pick up heat and urgency, and G’raha’s hand curves around Vahl’s hip._

_“Ah, G’raha Tia.” Vahl’s quick fingers trace loose lines over his shoulder and down the back of his ribs. One leg latches over G’raha’s thigh and pulls them together - chest to chest; knee to knee; waist to… “Think you can keep up?”_

_G’raha’s reply is pithy and crude, but Vahl’s blue eyes shine with laughter as he rolls on top._

_Cid notices. How could he not? When Vahl and G’raha walk up to the base of Syrcus Tower hand-in-hand the engineer’s eyebrows rise almost to his hairline, but if he has any thoughts on this newfound_ **_whatever it is_ **_he keeps them to himself._

_G’raha doesn’t mind. He has butterflies in his chest and adoration in his head and every time he steals a glimpse at Vahl the man’s already looking at him, grinning with that crooked, semi-bashful smirk._

_He doesn’t know if this is something fun or something long-lasting, and for now he’s too pleased he has it to bother asking questions. He suspects he’ll be in Eorzea for a year at least; whatever this is, they have plenty of time to figure it out._

_Vahl’s fallen asleep again._

_They sit near the back of Gridania’s amphitheater, watching a choir perform various renditions of Starlight classics; they are barely three songs in when Vahl’s head drops onto G’raha’s shoulder._

_G'raha doesn’t blame him. The Warrior of Light’s been running across the length of Eorzea, from the beastmen in Thanalan to the seas of Limsa; his latest foray had taken him before the rolling, raging Leviathan, and the less G’raha knows about that watery endeavor the better! They’ve barely had time to consider venturing within Syrcus Tower, let alone spend much time together these past few months, but tonight is the first night of the Starlight Celebration. Vahl promised they’d be together no matter how tired he might be._

_G’raha wraps an arm around Vahl’s side, pulling the dozing Warrior closer as he attempts to make his shoulder the comfiest pillow it can possibly be, and Vahl stirs to shift his head._

_“Love you, Raha,” he murmurs, and then stills once again._

_G’raha freezes. He blinks repeatedly, his gaze fixed on the middle of the stage, but he doesn’t hear a note past the roaring in his ears._

_Had he heard correctly…?_

_Had Vahl really said…?_

_He wants to jump up and shout, to dance, to plant a flurry of kisses upon this Hyur’s handsome face! He wants to say it back, to cry it from the rooftops!_

_He doesn’t make a sound. With love and light in his heart he rests his head against Vahl’s as his tail dips and bobs in time to the music._

_G’raha wakes to a sudden noise at the door. He sits up groggily, blinking sleep out of his eyes even as his hand reaches blindly for his bow against the wall, but the moment the door opens he recognizes the voice cursing at the lock._

_“Vahl?” He stops fishing for his weapon and instead wills his eyes to adjust to the near-darkness of their Gridanian apartment. “Is everything alright?”_

_“No,” comes the gruff, unexpected reply. “Just - I’ll be in bed in a moment.”_

_The door closes and locks; G’raha realizes his hand has curled into his blanket and forces his fingers to slowly loosen. He cannot say why he is suddenly on edge - why Vahl’s behaviour is so strange - but he has no idea what to do._

_“Do you need help?” he tries, and flinches at the sudden flare of a match. Vahl stands near the fireplace, but instead of encouraging the banked hearth he lights a few of the small, simple candles G’raha left over the mantle. A warm orange glow brightens the space; Vahl quickly flicks the match, extinguishing it, and begins to strip. “Is there - is there anything I can do…?”_

_The Warrior doesn’t make a sound as gloves, greaves, mail, and leathers come off. Layer after layer, each tossed to the floor with such casual - and unusual - indifference that G’raha wants to jump out of bed and demand an explanation -_

_The dried blood on Vahl’s back and arms keeps him frozen in place._

_He’d been fighting. What had he been fighting? They’d gone to Northern Thanalan digging for crystals. The basilisks and other beasts might be dangerous, and the northern camp is awfully close to Garlean territory, but it should have been easy! It should have been a simple mission!_

_What had gone wrong?_

_Finally Vahl is undressed; he slips into bed without a word and lies on his side, staring blankly past G’raha as his teeth bite hard against his bottom lip._

_“Please let me help,” G’raha murmurs, brushing his arm over the worst of the dried blood on Vahl’s shoulder. To his surprise it gives way with no sign of a scratch underneath._

_Not his. It’s not_ **_his_ ** _blood. But if it’s not his…_

_“Hold me?”_

_G’raha’s tail stiffens at that simple, pleading phrase. Vahl doesn’t sound like that - Vahl_ **_never_ ** _sounds like that! But it is the first request Vahl’s made, and G’raha isn’t about to disappoint him. Slowly lowering himself to lie facing Vahl, G’raha shimmies closer until he can wrap his arms around the Warrior’s shaking torso. He rests his forehead against Vahl’s neck, feeling every staggered inhale and exhale, and closes his eyes as he waits - and waits - and -_

_Testing, tentative hands. Whispering, wandering fingers. Slow movements up and down G’raha’s back are the first sign Vahl gives that he might want something more._

_“Vahl?” G’raha raises his head, pulling back to look the Warrior in the face._

_With his back to the candles most of the Hyur is in shadow, but one bright eye catches G’raha’s gaze. There’s a palpable_ **_need_ ** _in that stare, a desire so fierce G’raha gasps to see it, and his lips part as Vahl leans down to him._

_The first kiss is gentle - a question asked and a confirmation given - and then Vahl flips G’raha onto his stomach._

_This isn’t like other nights. This isn’t the easy lovemaking that comes naturally to both of them. This is something different, something darker: moved by a sudden and powerful hunger Vahl is relentless - demanding -_ **_volatile_ ** _-_

_G’raha gives him what he needs. For hours and hours, he gives him everything._

_When they both are finally spent Vahl doesn’t stay in bed. Still struggling to catch his breath, G’raha watches him cross the narrow room and throw open the shutters; he stands naked before the star-sprinkled sky as his chest heaves and his hands clench and unclench._

_“Vahl?” G’raha sits up. The light of the lone still-burning candle reveals lines of sweat rolling down the Warrior’s back, coursing over scratches and scars and so many bruises. Some G'raha had just given him, but others... “What happened today?”_

_One of Vahl’s fists suddenly slams into the windowsill._

**_“Vahl!”_ **

_“Moenbryda’s dead.” The Warrior spits it, hurling the words through the air with a fury so potent his body shakes with every syllable. “She_ **_died_ ** _right in front of me, Raha, and I - I couldn’t -”_

_G’raha surges across the room. There is a moment where something dark - something he doesn't recognize - flits across Vahl’s face, but it’s gone as quick as it came, and the mask he’s been holding drops. Sobs shake Vahl’s body as he pulls G’raha close, and there is nothing G’raha can do but hold him as they slowly sink to the floor. The Warrior’s murmured apologies fill the room - the same words, over and over and over again._

_“Forgive me - I wasn’t enough - forgive me -_ **_I wasn’t enough_ ** _\- !”_

_That last day - with Rammbroes, Cid, Wedge, Biggs, and Vahl. The five of them staring at him as he made his declaration -_ **_the future is where my destiny awaits_ ** _\- and then Vahl’s garbled, pleading denial - his hand outstretched - G’raha’s heart splintering into two - into four - into pieces so miniscule he can barely breath -_

_Tears cascade down his cheeks as both Roegadyn grab Vahl’s arms and pull him back from the door. G’raha thought to do it quickly - to make his announcement and leave, cutting off every connection as fast as he possibly can - but the betrayal in Vahl’s blue eyes ruins every hope he’d had._

_“How long?” Vahl demands._

_“Vahl?”_

_“How long until we can reopen the tower?”_

_Cid’s gaze flickers to G’raha before looking up. The engineer rests his hands on his hips, biting his lip as he frowns at the distant ceiling, and his silence is answer enough._

_“Why?” As simple as the question is, it has every other person averting their eyes - as though it peels back the curtain to reveal the heart at the center of their hardened Warrior, and they can’t stand to see it. “Why didn’t you tell me last night? Why didn’t you warn me?”_

_“You’d have tried to stop me.”_

_Vahl’s face crumples. “You don’t know that.”_

G’raha tumbles free of that memory with a moan, cutting it off before it reaches its crushing end. He doesn’t want to relive that - he never, _ever_ wants to see that expression on Vahl’s face! A part of his pain is guilt - he _had_ made an assumption! He’d believed Vahl would stop him! - and a part of it is knowing his cowardice kept him from taking the risk.

Maybe Vahl _wouldn’t_ have kept him from the tower. Maybe they would have had one final night together - one final goodbye in the privacy of their own rooms. One final wish for each other’s future…

He blinks back tears. Too late. Centuries too late. He made a choice and this is where he stands. He can only move forward.

Vauthry’s voice echoes down the mountain, accompanied by the screeches of his eaters and blasts of power that G’raha hopes come from the Scions. He is nearly off the Talos - he can see white pillars and sculptures waiting ahead, each exquisitely carved and inlaid with gold - and he knows it won’t be much longer now. Vauthry waits at the top, and after Vauthry…

His stomach rolls and he fears he might be sick. This lightheadedness has nothing to do with his tower; this is borne entirely of his own fear and anxiety. 

Someone once told him death is its own adventure - but he is not ready for his current adventure to end! There is so much he hasn’t seen, and - 

What if it hurts?

How long will he be alone?

He can’t - he can’t! He can’t think such thoughts! Vahl’s life depends on him finishing this climb! If he cannot do it for the First - for the Source - for every other soul depending on him - he _must_ do it for Vahl!

He knows Vahl would do the same were their places reversed. 

As he finally reaches the unearthly white stone the memories begin to swarm him in sharp, unpredictable bursts. Little flickers of his past scatter across his mind like crumbs, and he is the eager bird that devours them -

_Finding his first Allagan staff within the tower -_

_The years spent alone, learning and adapting and watching a speck of blue on the back of his hand grow ever larger -_

_That first day with Biggs - wrapped in a blanket, staring over the snow-covered lands of a Mor Dhona he can’t recognize, hiding his crystal hand within his sleeve -_

_Had he made a mistake?_

_Should he have stayed with Vahl?_

_Would the Warrior of Light have lived…?_

_An evening spent drinking with Derrik and Hollwyda, watching the Roegadyn wrap one large, muscled arm around the much smaller Hyur and trying not to feel bitter -_

_W’cheruh passing him a drink -_

_Dragons and machina and death, death, death. He watches Nalza fall; watches the red-masked Emet-Selch appear; watches W’cheruh take the spell that was meant for him -_

_Standing within the doorway of Syrcus Tower and begging -_ **_begging!_ ** _\- Derrik and Biggs to come within. Remembering how he’d stood in a similar place a lifetime earlier and watched those doors close; knowing that to leave might doom his friends but to stay would compromise centuries of lives and effort -_

_His first day in Norvrandt, staring out across an alien landscape of purples and pinks and blues, hypnotized by a sky of swirling, pearlescent aether -_

_“Here she comes, here she comes - ah! I’ve been caught!” Travyrs vanishes behind one of his taller stacks of books just as Lyna’s laughter reaches a crescendo, and they both appear a moment later as he tosses the toddler into the air. “Great chase! Good hunting! Let’s get you something to eat - but oh, of course, gnaw on that while we walk.”_

_“Thank you,” G’raha calls meekly as the Elf moves past him with the girl in his arms, her tiny mouth gnashing harmlessly on one of his pointed ears. “I’m sorry you’re suddenly a nanny -”_

_“I’m the eldest of five,” Travyrs interrupts with a happy shrug. “_ ** _This_ ** _I enjoy doing. And don’t you have a world to save? Lyna and I are having a wonderful time, aren’t we, darling?”_

_“Thank the gods.” G’raha slinks even lower in his chair. He loves this long-eared Viis more than he could ever have expected to, but adopted parenthood is beyond his current scope of energy. “I have a meeting with Ferro I’m already late to, but if you need me -”_

_“I’ll let you know,” Travyrs says without even looking his way. “Everything’s under control in the land of Travyrs and Lyna!”_

_“You’ve joined the guard?” he repeats, blinking repeatedly at the young Viis in front of him. “But - I thought - I thought you were interested in weaving…? Being a soldier is_ **_dangerous,_ ** _Lyna!”_

_She leans close to peck a quick kiss on his cheek before heading towards the Ocular door. “One day I will show you how to maim someone with a sewing needle.” Her wink does very little to dismiss the panic building in his chest. “I will be fine. I want to help! But for now I have to go - Sanga-Vri is hosting a demonstration for the new recruits. I will see you tomorrow?”_

_“Of course,” he murmurs, watching her leave -_

_As he so often watched Vahl leave -_

_Stumbling across the other shards while navigating the rift; giving in to temptation and peaking - just for a moment - at the lives roaming these strange, alien worlds; some few are bright and blinding and G’raha cannot help but be drawn to them -_

_Unknown Warriors of Light -_

_Others he might call upon before the end -_

_Summoning Thancred by mistake -_

_Y’shtola and Urianger -_

_The twins -_

_Vahl’s dark form makes its way across Lakeland as G’raha presses his nose against his crystal mirror, elation and hope and desire merging together to create the strangest urge to dance, cry, and laugh -_

_The painting shatters against the floor, the glass exploding outwards as dreams of Ascians and secrets and endings too dark to consider shear through G’raha’s sleep -_

_His hand on Vahl’s in a room lit by lightning -_

_“If you get lost out there I’m going to be_ **_furious_ ** _when I drag your ass back to Amity -”_

_Vahl’s hand outstretched in an offering, and all G’raha has to do is reach -_

The sky above him ripples. He freezes, grasping his staff with both hands as the aether pulses - wavers - and then - 

Like water parting behind a boat, the aether is carved in two. A beautiful night sky takes its place, with twinkling stars and the slightest hint of deep purple clouds. 

It is done. The last of Norvrandt’s Lightwardens is no more. 

He has to move. He has to keep walking. He knows not what waits at the top of this mountain, but he cannot stand and watch the stars much longer. 

A small, silly part of him wishes they’d done this during the day. To feel the sun on his face one last time - 

The break in aether lasts barely a minute. G’raha's heart freezes as the Light comes rushing back in, blanketing that calming sky in hated white clouds, and he knows without a doubt that Vahl needs him. 

He takes the last set of stairs at a run, his worry overpowering his reservations, and as he surmounts the final step he finds the Scions gathered around a bright, kneeling form - 

Aether leaks from Vahl; it twists and burns in arching waves of power all around him. It ripples over his skin, coils around his hands, flares from his eyes and his nostrils and -

G’raha doesn’t think. What use is thinking? There is no need for choice, not here, not now. He is needed, and he is uniquely prepared to save his Warrior’s life. His arm moves automatically, raising the Allagan staff to point it at Vahl, and all it takes is a simple pull on his distant tower and a shield blooms around the Hume. It flashes white and blue as the Scions cry out, rushing back from it in surprise, but G’raha passes through unhindered.

“Exarch!” Thancred hits the shield and recoils, shaking out his hand as though he’d stuck it in fire. “What are you doing?!”

G’raha keeps his eyes on Vahl. He sees the blood coursing from the corner of his mouth; the gashes on his hands; the sword dropped just out of reach - 

He sees the effort it takes to stay conscious -

The battle against Light within Vahl’s very soul -

And those bright blue eyes - those wonderful, brilliant, amazing eyes - 

“Hello, Vahl,” G’raha says softly, and he grips his staff in both hands. “I’ll take it from here.” It isn’t quite like summoning, and it isn’t quite like healing, but as the aether shifts and stirs in his grasp the nature of the spell at once feels intuitive - 

Easy -

The simplest thing, really. One little tug and the world will be saved. One more thought and Vahl will live.

“Thank you for everything,” he murmurs, and even if he can’t be sure Vahl hears him it sets his heart at rest to voice it. He pulls the staff towards himself and _drags_ at the foul aether corrupting his Warrior of Light and Darkness.

Every survival instinct he has immediately surges to the surface. Like attempting to breathe water or eating something spoiled, his entire body rejects the aether and initially refuses to keep going - 

G’raha grits his teeth and pulls even more Light into himself. Though at first it is cold as ice, it quickly sets fire to his veins and muscles; his lungs feel as though he’s inhaled needles; his stomach rolls and cramps with pain. It is so far beyond anything he could have expected - but as more Light floods to him, Vahl’s struggle lessens.

“Exarch!” Ryne’s voice is shrill on the other side of his barrier. “Someone - someone stop him! Y’shtola! Thancred!”

“Please!” Urianger’s shout stops the flurry of sound behind him. “Do not interfere!”

G’raha looks over his shoulder. The Elf’s face is contorted in a scowl of regret and self-loathing; a moment of guilt flits across G’raha’s heart - 

“I am sorry, Urianger, for involving you in this.” He looks around at the other Scions - at the twins, at Thancred and Y’shtola, at Ryne - and manages a smile. “He acted upon my wishes and mine alone. If only to bring Vahl here, to this last Warden, so that I -”

“You cannot take it and live,” Y’shtola interrupts him harshly, her hand already upon her weapon. “If Vahl cannot contain it with his Blessing, no one can.”

“Dearest Y’shtola, the plan was never to _live_.” He shakes his head and looks back to Vahl, who shudders with pain. “Long have I waited for this final moment - and it is _my_ moment, my end, my exit from this tale. As I have summoned you all across the rift, so too shall I open a portal for myself.”

“To the Source?” Alisaie takes a step forward, her fists clenched.

“No.” This from Vahl, curled forward over one knee, his chest heaving as he glares across the distance between them. “No, not our Exarch. Not he who fights to make his own choice.” He winces; spits bright liquid to the ground; wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I should have guessed. I should have -” He cringes again and braces himself. “He’ll take it into the rift. To that endless space between worlds.”

“You can’t!” A flash of power and he sees Alisaie recoil from his shield. “Damn you!”

“But if you take it you’ll die! You’ll _die_!”

G’raha smiles a ridiculous smile at the red-haired girl. “I am well aware, Ryne.” He looks back to Vahl, who struggles to stay upright - to stay in control just a little longer - and his smile softens. “But there are some things in this world worth dying for.” Before anyone can argue he twists his staff and pulls even more aether into himself, allowing the vile power to flood his veins - it is stretching, searching, filling, consuming, _cracking_ \- he must hurry; he must take the rest; he must complete the spell before he is overcome -

A burst of aether hits them both like a gale and the wind catches his hood _just so_ \- he feels the fabric fly backwards and there is naught he can do -

Vahl’s jaw drops. G’raha cannot think, cannot breathe! Unmasked _now_? After all he has done? All the effort he has gone to - the lies and manipulations and deceptions all to avoid _this_ \- this final farewell with the man he loves! He wants to sob at the unfairness of it, to take the rest of the aether in a rush and vanish into the rift without another word -

But he cannot look away from Vahl’s brilliant, bright blue eyes.

Shock, denial, hope, realization -

_Fury_ -

“No! I am _not_ losing you again, G’raha Tia!”

“That isn’t your choice to make,” G’raha whispers, and he begins to open a portal -

A split-second warning is all he has as his barrier shatters behind him. An instant later blinding, all-consuming pain radiates from his back outwards. His staff tumbles from numb fingers as the air leaves his lungs and he’s falling - the ground is too close -

_“RAHA!”_

The Light held within his grasp drains back to its source as quickly as it came. The spell unravels as he collapses and his last sight is Vahl - glowing, coalescing, _radiant_ -

And then -

Oblivion. 


	57. Neath Dark Waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for violence, blood, torture, emotional manipulation.

The first day is a blur.

Day? Night?

It makes no difference.

Manacles around his wrists rub raw against skin and crystal. There is some small give in the chain that binds him to the ebony floor - not enough to stand, not enough to move much more than a fulm in any direction - but every movement of said chain creates an echo in the silent, cavernous space. A dim light brings a small glow to the area directly around him before the rest of the room - hall? Basement? Gaol? - is lost to darkness. Even above him is a mystery: the light comes from a static, hazy orb of aether that hangs above his head like a moon obscured by fog. How far the room extends - outwards and upwards - is impossible to guess: while the echos suggest a massive space, he can’t imagine where this could possibly be.

Norvrandt?

The Source?

The Void…?

He shakes and he shakes and he shakes. The wound at his back bled sluggishly until he risked the smallest amount of aether to close it; he is all-too-aware of the bullet still lodged within, but he lacks the strength to do this properly. He lacks the _focus_ to do any of this.

He’d failed. At the very end - the very moment of his victory, the culmination of three hundred years of combined effort - he’d _failed_! The Light remains in Norvrandt and Vahl…

_Vahl…!_

Eventually G’raha sleeps.

*

The second day is much worse.

Hunger wakes him. Sharp and taunting and impossible to ignore - yet just as impossible to solve. He remains on his side, listless, his bound hands extended in front of him as though he is a strange, discarded toy on a string - 

A voidgate opens and closes in the distance.

Fear has G’raha sitting upright. Fear chills his bones, steals his air, destroys his common sense. He tries to slide backwards but the chain refuses to give; he yanks on it, again and again and again, growing more and more frantic as his eyes scour the darkness around him - wanting to see something purely to _see_ it, to have the moment of revelation occur, to stop jumping at shadows - while simultaneously praying he is alone.

Gods, please let him be alone.

A distant sound, deeper than the clinking of his chains. 

He freezes with his hands tight against his chest. His ears lie flat against his head as he holds his breath -

Please, please, please, _please_ -

Golden eyes meet his across the expanse.

“An Allagan Miqo’te.” A purr of words comes from everywhere and nowhere, seeming to thrum throughout his very mind. “What a surprise to find one roaming so far from home. Is it lost? This weary, wayward soul…” Emet-Selch steps out of the darkness, his bored, half-lidded eyes flickering to G’raha’s hands before they return to his face. His enunciation is slow and precise as he adds, “I do not like surprises.”

Every bone in G’raha’s body screams to flee - to shield - to react first - 

Fear locks him in place. Fear and the memory of a shield shattering in Ishgard - of a life annihilated so quickly and completely - 

Powerful though he may be, he cannot contend with an Unsundered Ascian. Not alone. Not without his tower.

Not _this_ Ascian.

“Tell me why you’re here.”

“To save the world,” he replies hoarsely. 

The Ascian rolls his eyes. “ _Please_. Not an ounce of originality. Every would-be hero thinking they’re going to turn the tides -” His eyes narrow. “When you’re only _wasting my time_.” He takes another step forward and G’raha cringes back, scrambling on his knees to put as much distance as he can between them - but with his hands still shackled there is nowhere to go. Emet-Selch’s voice twists higher, taking on a nasal whine as he continues to approach. “Allagans do not belong on the First. Did you think me a fool? Did you think I would ignore you and your tower? Dangling Vahl like the enticing carrot he is was an excellent diversion but _you_ , Exarch - you are the conductor of this opera. You are the prize I am most pleased to find within my grasp.” He closes the distance and G’raha desperately attempts to pull away, tugging with all his strength - but in one swift move the Ascian crouches, wraps the chain around his hand, and yanks it toward him. G’raha braces to keep his balance, managing to stay upright as he skids forward on his knees - 

Directly within arms’ reach of those white-gloved hands.

“No - !” Not fast enough. Emet-Selch’s left hand closes around his throat like a vice. 

“Let us have a second chance for introductions.” A red Ascian glyph flares over the man’s face, obscuring everything except his terrifying golden eyes. “Welcome to Amaurot, G’raha Tia.”

*

Emet-Selch leaves several hours later. He pauses next to the voidgate to delicately pull at his gloves, dragging the red-stained fabric from his long fingers with slow precision.

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” he says mildly. The ruined gloves land softly at his feet and he vanishes into a cloud of aether.

G’raha rolls onto his back, resting his manacled hands atop his stomach. He needs to catalogue the damage - to assess in order to better use what little aether he can spare for healing - but not now. Not yet. He doesn’t want to see.

He doesn’t want to think.

Time slips by, elusive and meaningless. For once G’raha has nowhere to be. No world to save, no Scions to muster, no Vahl to…

He closes his eyes. Gone. All gone. Gone to Light and ruin.

Something warm runs across his brow and over his eyelid; he cringes and wipes at it, frowning in confusion until he raises his hand to the light.

Red on his fingers, wet and glistening.

His gorge rises and he rolls to his side, breathing hard through clenched teeth as he tries not to think - tries to focus on anything else - tries not to remember Emet-Selch’s face as he brought his right hand forward and extended a trio of long, curved claws -

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

“Gods,” he groans, and shakily drags himself upright. With both hands clasped together it is difficult, but not impossible, to tear the bottom of his robes; he immediately lies back and covers the gash across his forehead with the scrap of fabric. It isn’t much, but it’s the best he can manage until he can gather the energy to close the wound.

Emet-Selch hadn’t taken pleasure in it, hadn’t reveled in it, hadn’t shown any emotion at all - he’d gone about it as though it was another menial task. A simple job, for a simple creature -

_“I do not consider you to be truly alive.”_

Monstrous. Horrific. A being made of death and nightmares, of cold hatred and incomprehensible boredom -

And Vahl thought to pity him! _Him_! 

G’raha gives his head a shake. Don’t think of Vahl. Don’t open that wound. Don’t consider what might be happening in Norvrandt - what the Scions might be enduring as they attempt to control whatever it is Vahl has become -

Squeezing his eyes shut yet again, G’raha raises his shackled hands to his forehead. A pulse of aether breeches the distance between his fingers and his skin, passing through the scrap of soaked fabric to stop the bleeding. 

Tapped. Drained completely. His hands flop back onto his belly as a sob escapes him. He doesn’t have the energy to finish it, let alone care for the rest. Scratches and lacerations burn along his arms, face, and chest; he can already feel his robes beginning to stick to clotting wounds but he has _nothing_ left! Not a drop!

And Emet-Selch said he’d return tomorrow. 

Too exhausted even to cry, G’raha drifts into merciful unconsciousness. 

*

“Who is the Crystal Exarch, really?”

Silence.

“Mayhap I should begin by asking about G’raha Tia - I must admit, I cannot help but find myself impressed by how long you kept up the charade! Longer even than I played at being Solus! That takes a wealth of dedication.”

A mumbled response, too low and slurred to cross the distance between them.

“Beg pardon? Speak up, dear Exarch - I am all ears.”

G’raha drags in another breath. Opening his jaw results in a series of cracks and pops that shoot right through the searing pain in his head; he slides his tongue around his bloody mouth and attempts to spit, but most of the bitter, metallic fluid dribbles down his chin. “That is not...the compliment...you think it is.”

The Ascian sighs. “One day we shall move past this feeble banter.”

_Never._ He doesn’t say it aloud - he’s learned that much - but he keeps his gaze on the chain attached to the floor; on the rust-coloured gloves next to it; on the black links of metal winding their way to his wrists. His entire body screams to lie down, to rest, to shift off aching muscles and cracked skin -

“Again. Who is the Crystal Exarch?”

G’raha closes his eyes.

*

Some days he is left alone.

They aren’t necessarily easier days. While his body may avoid further injury his mind quickly turns inwards, recalling moments of pain and fear that only compound the misery of existing in this space. Optimism seems as far away as the Source; an end feels as unlikely as a rescue. He will be here until his body fails or Emet-Selch takes what he needs -

And G’raha is not about to give him that.

He’d cried out, hadn’t he? Yelled and cried and begged - even that! Even that…

Shame is insidious. It burrows inwards and nestles in his consciousness, and whether he turns his attention to it or not it eventually begins to spread.

He shouldn’t have cried. 

In the quiet dark of his lonely prison there are moments he thinks W’cheruh had the easier ending.

*

“You cannot stay silent forever. You will quickly find that I have more questions than you have skin.”

G’raha digs his teeth deeper into the inside of his cheek. He wills himself not to speak - not to make so much as a gasp - but as the back of one of those sharp claws slides down his temple he cannot contain the shiver that sets his entire body shaking.

“How did you come to the First?”

G’raha thinks about Derrik and Biggs - about that last gathering in Eight Sentinels, when they presented him with his new robes and a flurry of well-wishes and gratitude - about the love and companionship he’d been gifted at the end of the world -

Dual lines of pain drag at his attention as the Ascian lazily flicks his hand over G’raha’s shoulder. “How did you come to control my tower?”

He thinks about Travyrs and Lyna - about slowly befriending the Elf; about the unexpected trials that came from suddenly raising a daughter - and he hopes they are not suffering now -

The tips of those claws dig into his cheeks, two on one side and one on the other. “How did you learn of the Warrior of Light?”

A whimper escapes him, unexpected and loud as a bellow in that quiet space, and the claws retract. 

“There we are.” Emet-Selch steps away, shaking out his sleeves as he watches G’raha with a sudden intensity. “That is as good a beginning as I would have hoped for! So, then - the Warrior of Light.” He tilts his head to one side. “Tell me about Vahl Rime.”

“What -” G’raha swallows; coughs; shakes his head. “I have nothing to say.”

“Oh, Exarch. Exarch, Exarch, Exarch - you delightful, droll little soul. You have _so much_ to say! You have so much waiting to spill out of that fluffy-eared head of yours - and you _will_ say it. You know you have nothing to gain by drawing this out. Have I not impressed upon you the endless amount of time at my fingertips?” He rolls his eyes as his shoulders sag forward. “There are better uses of such time, Exarch. We need not play these games.”

G’raha clamps his teeth together. He is well aware how long they have, just as he has no doubts as to the limits of this monster’s patience, but that gives him no motivation to voice any of his secrets. Though he has yelled, cried, and begged, he has still not given the Ascian a single piece of useful information.

Lacking hope, he holds on to stubbornness with an iron fist.

“Mayhap I should speak first! I am not being a very generous host, am I?” The Ascian suddenly strikes a pose with one arm held aloft as he gazes upwards. “The Warrior of Light! The most notable of many thorns in my side! A mystery across this shard and the Source - but what _is_ he, really? Why has this one soul been Blessed by your ever-persistent Mother? What gives _him_ the power to stand against my brethren?” Emet-Selch drops the pose and smirks. “Shall I tell you? Shall I divulge all of your hero’s secrets? Do you truly know what lies at the heart of Vahl Rime?”

“You are speaking nonsense,” G’raha retorts, but he cannot throw any confidence behind his words. “You know even less of him than I.”

“Oh, of course - of Mister Rime there is no doubt. But his _soul_ , Exarch - his soul, shattered and piecemeal as it may be, is unmistakable.” The look in those golden eyes steals the breath from G’raha’s lungs. “And I know that soul very, very well.”

“You’re lying.” The words are strangled, choked, lacking any sort of conviction. What does G’raha know of Vahl’s _soul_? He knows it is Blessed; he knows it is chosen by Hydaelyn; he knows it is corrupted by Light aether. What more could there possibly be?

Emet-Selch’s face twists. “Always so quick to deny me! That shall be your epitaph - ‘if I do not believe it must not be truth’. The refrain of fools and the dead!” The mask of boredom falls into place once again, though the rage in those golden eyes simmers unabated. “I tire of talking in circles. Tell me of the Tycoon.”

G’raha’s stomach drops. “How - how do you -”

“It was a mistake to assume your locks would keep _me_ out. Why is there a creation of Ironworks design housed in an Allagan tower on a shard far across the rift from either?”

“I - I don’t -”

“In all our time together I never _once_ lied to you - yet here you are, feeding me platter after platter of falsehoods and fictions.” Without warning he flings a hand forward. The dark streak of aether hits like a kick to the ribs and G’raha drops to his back, blinking dazedly at the dim orb above him as he fights to suck in any small breath of air - 

“This will only end once I have what I want. Do you truly desire to spend the rest of your long, long life doing _this_?” The Ascian snorts; the sound of a voidgate heralds the end of this day’s visit, though it brings G’raha little relief. “Think on it, Exarch. In the meantime -” A simple wave of his hand summons a jug near the chain. “A parting gift.”

The voidgate closes. G’raha is once again alone.

He frantically pats his chest, expecting to find a wound or a shard of black aether - but there is nothing. No tear in his robes nor mark upon his skin: only a long, lingering pain, a bruising that aches both front and back - 

He rubs at his mouth with the back of hand, leaving a smear of red across his skin. With a grimace he spits to one side, tasting the bitter blood on his tongue, and holds his hands against his ribs. 

Not enough aether to find the source of the damage. Not enough power to heal whatever’s been hurt. 

Nothing he can do.

The jug looms large in his vision. How long has it been since he had a drink? How long has it been since he had anything at all? The tower keeps him alive no matter how hungry he might be - and Emet-Selch, understanding the nature of the tower’s connection to its caretaker, is no doubt aware of that.

But - water. _Water_. Perhaps not fresh, perhaps lukewarm, but - 

Poisoned? Drugged?

The Ascian has nothing to gain by poisoning him. He needs G’raha alive, and risking a premature end to this interrogation would be a mistake G’raha doesn’t believe the man is foolish enough to make.

Drugs are more likely. 

Something to lower inhibitions? To alter his mood? To cloud his vision and judgement, so that he may believe himself somewhere else - perhaps speaking with _someone_ else?

A risk. An unacceptable risk. G’raha’s experience with such things is minimal; he has no doubts he would be at the mercy of whatever concoction played upon his senses until it ran its course, and that would spell doom for what remains of this world. 

Turning around and closing his eyes does not help.

Water, water, water.

*

“You did not partake of my little gift?” Emet-Selch’s eyes flash with amusement. “Oh, you _wound_ me, Exarch! Is trust between ancient, secretive beings truly so hard to come by?” With a wave of his hand the jug rises up - up - up before tilting forward. G’raha tries not to lick parched lips as the clear, crystalline water spills across the ebony floor, but _gods_ \- what he wouldn’t do…!

The jug vanishes. The Ascian smirks. “I hadn’t touched it, you know. A gift, as I said - and I am always telling the truth.”

G’raha’s chin drops to his chest. Water, water, water - his powers for a drop; his life for a mouthful; the world for a drink. He shakes his head, keeping his grimace hidden behind his matted, limp hair. “It matters not. I want nothing from you.”

“Nothing save freedom?” The Ascian’s voice lowers. “Or perhaps - something a little darker? Is Norvrandt’s Crystal Exarch capable of violence? Of _vengeance_? He has carried his hatred for a very long time.” Footsteps pass through the small puddle of water as the Ascian approaches. “Why, I dare say you formed an opinion of me even before we met!” His voice lowers even more. “How curious…”

“It is impossible not to have an opinion regarding Ascians.”

“Do not try to muddle my thoughts. Your dislike is personal.” Emet-Selch pauses before whispering, “Who did I kill?”

A shield shattering -

W’cheruh’s pained cry as he collapses into G’raha’s arms -

A spell teleporting them away a moment too late -

G’raha’s breath is haggard, rushed, telling. His hands open and close within his chains. He blinks away tears, feeling them roll across the grime covering his cheeks before they tumble to the stained floor beneath him. 

“Fascinating.” The Ascian crouches. “Let us pluck at this unexpected loose thread, hmm? After all, we have plenty of time…”

A single long claw pierces the underside of G’raha’s chin, forcing his head up until crimson eyes meet gold. 

“From the beginning, my dear Exarch.”


	58. A Righteous Infliction of Retribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this a few days early, just because!

G’raha rests on his knees. His arms hang limply in front of him; his hair hides his face as he blankly stares at the links of metal still binding his wrists to the floor. His robes are torn and filthy; his skin is bruised; every part of him aches. He has lost track of how long he has been in this invasive space, just as he has lost count of how many times those damned golden eyes met his.

“You came to the First nearly a century ago, in possession and in control of Syrcus Tower.” The Ascian paces as he talks, his shoulders hunched forward as he clasps his hands behind him. “You hid your identity but were always clear about your purpose: to save this world from the Flood.” He grimaces and shakes his head. “I dismissed such claims as optimistic drivel. Strange and unexpected as your arrival might be, I believed there was nothing within the tower that could undo the damage already done. No matter that your Crystarium continued to grow; that more flocked to your cause; that you appeared to have a measure of control over the tower that I had not witnessed in millenia. You made little progress and even lost ground more than once! I was there, you know, when you attempted to destroy the Lightwarden. Your first failed attempt on the banks of the Source. How many soldiers did you lose?”

G’raha doesn’t respond. Of course Emet-Selch had been there. Of course he’d witnessed their desperate attempt to control the Light. Of course.

“Soon, I told myself, Vauthry would be powerful enough to end this blight - to tip the scales in my favour just as Black Rose is unleashed upon the Source. Soon the Rejoining will _finally_ come to be.” He stops pacing and looks up, blinking at that strange orb of light. “And then the Warrior of Light appeared in Lakeland.”

G’raha closes his eyes. Such hope! Such joy! All of his and the Ironworks’ efforts, time, and dedication - gone. Turned to ashes. All for naught.

“And you, Exarch! Playing the long game! Hiding your face not so that _I_ would not recognize you, but so that your very own Warrior of Light was kept in the shadows! Such a twist!” Gloved fingers suddenly grasp his chin and yank upwards; G’raha opens his eyes to see the Ascian crouching in front of him. “A new mystery for the ages: who is G’raha Tia? And what does he mean to Vahl Rime?” He leans close as his voice softens. “Why would one care for the other?”

G’raha’s lip curls in a snarl at the sudden change in tone. He doesn’t think: he spits at the Ascian, feeling a palpable - if childish - sense of triumph as it lands upon the man’s pale cheek.

The golden eyes narrow. “Truly a paragon of your people.” Emet-Selch wipes at his face with his free hand, his mouth twisting in disgust and disappointment as his fingers pinch G’raha’s chin and cheeks even harder. “My patience is near its end, Exarch.” He leans closer still, nearly touching his third eye to G’raha’s forehead. “I require Allagan blood. You need not be _willing_ for me to make use of it.”

“Take my blood and my secrets die with me.”

“Ever the fool,” the Ascian whispers, and he releases G’raha’s chin with enough momentum to tumble G’raha onto his back. “ _Dying_ is not an option. Mayhap I must experiment with something more permanent. Eyes? Fingers? Tail? What will it be, Miqo’te?”

G’raha would laugh if he had the energy for it. He had been willing to give _everything_ for his people - he would gladly give a whole hand if only to frustrate this damn Ascian.

A chime suddenly interrupts them; the sound is so bright and lively that G’raha immediately assumes he’s imagined it. Emet-Selch turns away, distracted and annoyed, and holds up a hand. “What is it?”

“Visitors for you on the main floor.” The voice rumbles from somewhere far behind them, a deep baritone speaking with a bizarre, alien accent. “They have asked for you by name, sir.”

Emet-Selch’s golden eyes slide to G’raha. “Multiple visitors? Including a blue-eyed fellow?”

“Yes, sir. With six others.”

_Vahl!_ Vahl is here! Vahl is _alive_! Vahl and the Scions! From the deepest, darkest despair comes the most-unexpected of hopes - 

“I will be upstairs momentarily,” Emet-Selch announces. “Ask that they wait in the foyer.”

No! G’raha fights against the chains, dragging the metal into his wrists in a frantic attempt to slide his hands free. If Vahl is alive he cannot take the risk - not against an Unsundered! Not with Light aether coursing through his veins! Not with G’raha here - trapped - unable to assist -

“Ah, you poor thing.” The Ascian again crouches in front of him, resting his arms on his knees as he watches G’raha struggle with an interest that borders both pity and amusement. “Try not to wear yourself out, hmm? You’ll want to be awake to see how this act ends.” 

“If you kill him -”

“Me? Kill _him_?” Emet-Selch clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. “No no no no no, dear Exarch! I shall not kill Vahl Rime. I shall watch him complete his transformation and then - _then…_ ” The joy in his golden eyes twists G’raha’s stomach. “Perhaps I shall bring you with us. Bound and chained at my side, hobbling along behind me as my new eater devours what remains of Norvrandt. Would that finally loosen that damned tongue of yours?” One hand reaches forward and G’raha instinctually flinches - but the Ascian merely pats his head. “Sit tight, Exarch. This won’t take long.” 

Emet-Selch vanishes and G’raha is alone. Alone in a locked space somewhere on the First, bound and bleeding while Vahl is above him. Somewhere! G’raha quickly pulls his arms up and down, rippling the chain in a wave that accomplishes absolutely nothing except to fill the air with sound as it exhausts him even further.

He leans forward onto his hands and knees. A new seed of worry sprouts in the sudden silence - a little fear that grows and grows until he can barely breathe -

If Vahl is somehow successful - if he manages to destroy Emet-Selch without being consumed by aether or killed in the process - he will not know G’raha is here.

Chained for eternity? Bound until his strength finally wanes? Locked and left behind in this place - this dark, empty hell?

“Anything but this,” G’raha whispers. “Even the rift, gods - even the rift would be better.” 

Would they hear him if he shouts? If he rattles his chains? The voice had said someone arrived above - how far above? Malms and malms and malms? Or is there a thin ceiling in that darkness above him, a simple barrier his cries might penetrate? Shivers take him yet again, shivers and shakes and desperation - 

He whimpers. It is a very loud sound in a very large room.

It is the only sound.

“I have to get out,” he says. Frantic eyes stray over the chain, the floor, the blood-stained gloves Emet-Selch left behind. “I must - I _must_ get out.” He cranes his neck back, willing his crimson eyes to pierce the darkness above. “Vahl? _Vahl_!”

Silence.

His hands spin and twist in his chains; though slick with blood and sweat the manacles are too narrow to allow his wrists to pass though. Desperation drives him to plant the bottom of his feet against the top of the manacles and _push_ \- but it only draws blood against the back of his hands as the metal digs into skin and crystal. He collapses onto his back, chest heaving from the effort, and tries not to cry.

Think - think! With a little more aether - 

_What_ aether? If he waits to recuperate it will be too late. What is the point in making his own escape if Vahl falls to the Light?

“Hydaelyn!” His voice is a small, timid sound that echoes into the emptiness before vanishing completely. “Thaliak! Azeyma, Halone, Nald’thal! _Anyone_!” The last is a sob of desperation. The gods do not reply to mortals - even Vahl with his Blessing cannot call upon their Mother whenever he needs her - and these are gods of the Source! What power would any of them have so far removed as this?

There is no one listening. There is no one left to hear.

“Do not panic, little one.”

G’raha’s stomach drops. The voice comes from behind - a strange voice speaking in a strange accent. He rolls to his hands and knees, glancing about blindly at the oppressive darkness on every side. “Who speaks?”

“A friend,” says the voice. “A new friend to you, I would hope. I am a new-old friend to your dark-haired hero and an old friend to Emet-Selch.” G’raha can hear the smile in that strange voice. “I am here to help all three.”

“Who? How? Where are you?” The words _friend to Emet-Selch_ do little to inspire G’raha’s confidence, but he cannot turn away the only offer of aid he might receive. “Please, I - I cannot get out -”

A massive black-robed figure steps out of the darkness, its long body towering above G’raha. A small white mask hides the creature’s face; it is oddly-birdlike while also reminding G’raha of - of _something_ \- of something he cannot place -

“What are you?” G’raha whispers. 

“A memory. As is this place. Emet-Selch’s memories, born of aether and deep, deep longing.” It gestures to the room around them before lowering its head. “My old friend is about to make a mistake - the largest mistake of his tremendously-long life. I am here to prevent that.”

His old friend - Emet-Selch. G’raha narrows his eyes. “What kind of mistake?”

“If Zodiark did not grasp tight the chains which bind him, Emet-Selch would find his current course just as repugnant as you do.” The memory leans forward. “He, too, once understood the value of a particular soul. A soul I believe you are well-acquainted with - a soul this star is not ready to lose.”

It speaks of Vahl. How it knows of him, or why it has judged Vahl’s life so highly, G’raha cannot even begin to guess. “I - I see,” he stammers, though what he sees is dwarfed by the mountain of questions he does not have time for. Hesitantly he raises his bound wrists. “Might you…?”

The creature lifts a finger and the chains vanish. “Come along, little one.” 

Before G’raha can argue the dim, hated space vanishes and they stand in an enormous, brightly-lit room. Elaborate flooring and walls display geometric patterns in both bright and dark stone; the same patterns continue into the lights along the walls and the impossibly-tall doors that line the long sides of this room. As fascinating and alien as the architecture is, G’raha’s attention is quickly captured by the scene at the far end of the hall.

Hell waits beyond the open doors. Fire and ash swirl through the portal into another world - billowing smoke mars a skyline of ruins, a skyline bright with fire and winged beasts, and the sounds that escape that doorway raise the hairs on the back of G’raha’s neck.

He’d considered his prison a type of hell, but this - _this_ -

“You must traverse this memory,” the shadow says. “It is a nightmare conjured within a dream - but you are very much awake. Step carefully lest you lose yourself in this fiction.”

“You - you cannot join me?” In truth he cannot say whether it is wise to trust this stranger, but he has no one left. If this is the form hope takes he would be damned to ignore it, no matter how bizarre it may be.

“I am a figment from a time before the Final Days. What lies before you is beyond my ken.” The shadow holds out a hand. “Though I believe you might need this.”

The Allagan staff looks like a twig in the creature’s enormous palm, but G’raha reaches for it instantly. As reassuring as it is to have a weapon to hand once again it quickly reminds him of the distance to the tower - of the exhaustion and hunger that weaken his knees, cramp his stomach, and muddle his thoughts. Having his staff is not the blessing he wants it to be.

“Thank you,” he says. He is not able to keep the disappointment from his voice. “Thank you for - for this, at least. I -”

“One last boon.” The creature bends at the waist; its long grey fingers weave a slow, intricate pattern before G’raha’s eyes as it continues, “Your soul is not intended for this, my new friend. Bound too closely - with blood _and_ aether - one of Emet-Selch’s creations, of course -” The mutters die away, just before, “Ah! There. Amplification rather than disintegration -”

“Disintegration?” G’raha repeats, taking an anxious step back, but the shadow’s hand stops moving. A single finger points at G’raha.

“A temporary solution.” Its tone is apologetic. “The aftereffects may be unpleasant. But for now…” The finger waves once, a quick flick, and then - 

The tower! 

G’raha’s knees nearly give way and he clutches his staff to keep his feet as his connection to Syrcus Tower fluctuates - wavers - stabilizes - 

Aether. Aether to draw upon, aether to utilize, aether at his beck and call - 

He raises his head to the shadow, staring at it in shock, and the giant’s shoulders shrug.

“I would counsel you not to draw upon it much longer, else you might lose what flesh remains,” it says quietly. “But for now it will be enough.”

“More than enough,” G’raha whispers. He stands up straight, giving his head a shake as he attempts to adjust to the strength barrelling through him. He might as well be standing in the tower’s very heart! As if there is no distance at all! And while it may do nothing for his hunger and thirst, for the wounds across his skin and the nerves that fray with every thought of that dark space, it will at least allow him to utilize its strength as his own.

“Why?” he asks suddenly, craning his neck back to stare at that strange, white mask. “If Emet-Selch is a friend -”

“Emet-Selch is not my only friend trapped within that nightmare,” it interrupts, though not unkindly. “I cannot imagine either of them ever forgiving me if I did not lend a hand.” The shadow suddenly tilts its head from side to side, and when it speaks its voice is much cheerier. “And! I think you have a chance of success! That is, I believe, reason enough to try.”

A chance is not much, given the enormity of what waits ahead of him, but - 

Had he not crossed the rift? Had he not journeyed to the past? He dared to rewrite the very fabric of time and space! To alter history itself! 

How much more difficult might it be to end a single nightmare? 

“Thank you,” he says, bowing low to the creature. “Whether or not you are truly on my side, thank you for at least returning the hope I believed lost.”

“It is the least I can do,” the shadow says, and though G’raha cannot see its mouth he can sense its smile. “Good luck, my new friend.” It steps back, leaving G’raha alone facing that open door.

Apprehension holds him still. This is the furthest he’s ever been from the plan that moored him - grounded him - focused him - 

But it blinded him, too. If he’d trusted the Scions, or spoken about his fears with Y’shtola and Ryne, or admitted the cost at the end of this long and elaborate plan - 

If he’d told Vahl the truth -

G’raha is off the map completely. For the first time in years he has no idea what comes next - and there is the chance of a future at the end of this! Some sliver of salvation for himself _and_ two worlds if he can only do what this stranger asks of him!

Stop an Unsundered Ascian? Save the Warrior of Light’s life? Traverse the flames of hell itself?

“What have I to lose?” He wiggles his ears and grips his staff tight against his chest. “You’ve done this before, Exarch.” Charging through the portal to the World of Darkness with nary a second thought might not have been the wisest choice - but following Vahl to the Thirteenth had been easier because Vahl was _there_ , destined to guide and fight with him through to the very end. There had been a sense of invincibility with the Warrior of Light by his side, a sense that - no matter how dark it might be or what creatures they might face - they would survive if only because they were together. 

This advance lacks that assurance. Vahl is within, yes, but to get to him G’raha must navigate the nightmare on his own - 

Just as he has been doing ever since Biggs awakened him in Syrcus Tower.

G’raha steps through the doorway. 

*

Having survived the aftermath of the Seventh Calamity G’raha remembers the destruction; the devastation; the death. He remembers the tales from Eorzea - from Carteneau in particular - and he remembers how many were lost. 

In Eight Sentinels he could see the aftereffects of the Eighth Calamity in every person he met, every place he visited. Two centuries after Black Rose turned the world on its head people were still fighting to come to a place of comfort - of _peace_ \- and even from his brief stay it had been obvious they had a very long way to go.

This land Emet-Selch has recreated - this memory of Amaurot - is far, far worse. Ruin stretches as far as he can see: death rains from the sky, carried across the land by beasts on monstrous wings. More creatures materialize with every step he takes as black-robed shadows flee and die at his feet. The city is littered with bodies; some are charred; some are mangled; some are feasted upon -

Emet-Selch survived this. As G’raha survived both the Seventh and Eighth Calamities, so too had this Ascian managed to avoid this ending - this catastrophe of epic, unbelievable proportions. Amidst the terror of a world coming down around him, somehow he had escaped the fate that claimed almost every other soul.

Who had he lost?

Does he even remember?

G’raha’s fear of the Ascian wars against his love for Vahl, his dedication to his people, his desire to _end this_ once and for all. Long has the name Emet-Selch meant death and destruction on a personal level that he has not shared with anyone - not since Eight Sentinels - and yet here he walks! Here he runs towards that immortal soul! This is indubitably the most foolhardy thing he has ever done!

He _cannot_ stand against Emet-Selch alone. Even with the tower at his beck and call he knows he cannot confront the Ascian and live. Even himself and Vahl together would be easily outmatched! 

But _other_ souls - other Warriors of Light - others Blessed with the selfsame power Vahl controls -

It is a sliver of an idea. He does not know that it will work, but when the alternative is annihilation he can only make the attempt.

“A little bit of courage,” he murmurs, dashing around a trio of cloaked figures running the opposite direction. “Just enough before the end.”

G’raha hides more than he fights, dodging packs of wandering nightmares and scurrying among the ruins and ash of collapsed buildings. With his staff in hand he is at least able to control his aether, but he will not risk meeting his own end at the maws of some nameless nightmare borne of Emet-Selch’s twisted memories. He moves forward as quickly and as quietly as he can - 

Deeper and deeper into Amaurot.

It is easy enough to follow the Scions’ path: footprints stand out sharply amongst the ash and ruin - footprints, signs of battle, and the collapsed bodies of their foes.

G’raha follows, and follows, and follows. Along ruined, jumbled roads; across cracked and pitted courtyards; down ramps shorn off along the sides - he follows after Vahl.

Hasn’t he always? Through Syrcus Tower, across the rift to the Thirteenth, and even in Eight Sentinels - he’d been following Vahl’s adventures through history and his own, jumbled attempts to connect the dots. He’d visited the Waking Sands, Dravania, Coerthas, Gyr Abania, Ala Mhigo - he’d flown chocobos and dragons, had treated with Elezen and Imperials, had befriended allies across multiple countries - 

Just as Vahl had long, long before him. 

It was only once he came to Norvrandt that G’raha finally began to walk outside of Vahl’s shadow. Here was a new path! Here was uncharted territory - a land without Vahl’s mark upon it; without that constant reminder of what had been lost - and for the first time G’raha wasn’t following anyone! Here he became the Crystal Exarch!

And now Vahl is here, and G’raha is again following at his heels. 

“This is the last time,” he mutters, dropping onto his belly to slither under a piece of wedged stone, dragging himself forward through debris and dirt to reach the clearing on the other side. “This is the _very last_ time I follow. Next time - next time…” He reaches open air and pushes himself to his feet, swaying somewhat as the blood rushes to his head, but the sight ahead of him tears the words from his lips.

A portal. Not a voidgate - at least, not any kind he has ever seen - but a teleportation spell set and anchored within a large, circular structure. It bobs lazily amongst nearly three dozen corpses of foul, tainted creatures, and from its top comes a gentle effusion of aether that shifts and sways in visible lines, drawing the eye up - up - up -

Whatever waits is beyond the perpetual cloud of ash and smoke that shrouds the sky. 

Whatever waits is where Vahl went.

“Next time,” he grumbles, striding forward through the bodies and debris and ruin, “Next time we’re diving in _together_.”

G’raha reaches for the portal.

*

He arrives at the pinnacle just as Vahl collapses. 

This battlefield is unlike any other he has ever seen. Half-formed masses of rock merge and collide far above the world; they are beyond the very clouds! In space itself! The sky falls all around them - flaming rock and metal hurl towards masses of land glowing orange with fire. Above them is a rain of more of the same: the very stars seem drawn down to the land beneath them. 

And just ahead - across the land torn and jutted and pitted by fire, across this space held aloft by Emet-Selch’s will - stands the Ascian himself, his face bright with ecstasy -

The Scions are strewn across the ground like discarded dolls, their limbs askew and their eyes closed. Ahead of them is a cloud of white - a shining, shimmering, pulsing fog of aether. 

Vahl. 

Too late. Too late, too late, too late! He was gifted with a second chance and he dawdled - he hesitated - he underestimated the Ascian yet again -

Unless…

If it is too late for Vahl…

He might still save Norvrandt. He might still save the First. 

When the Light consumes Vahl’s essence all G’raha would need is the time to cast. Within a moment both of them could be set adrift within that endless space between worlds - that star-filled emptiness, that cold, terrifying void - far from Norvrandt, far from anywhere, far from Emet-Selch and whatever plans he might have.

It is not the adventure he hoped for, but at the very least they will be together.

He cannot do it from here. Emet-Selch would see him the moment he stepped upon the ledge, let alone raised his staff - but from _behind_ the Ascian, mayhap…

Tearing his eyes from the cloud of Light, G’raha slowly slinks around the outer edge of this floating rock, grasping miniscule handholds and wedging fingers and toes within the smallest of gaps. It is another layer of exhaustion - another layer of torment - 

But this is all he has left. Either he lets go and plummets, taking his own power, blood, and knowledge far from the hands of Emet-Selch, or he opens a portal for both himself and Vahl. 

It might only delay the Ascians’ plans, but he has to try.

After three centuries of effort he must make the attempt.

He is nearly at the far ledge when the cloud of aether surrounding Vahl morphs into a pillar of Light, sending a shockwave of energy past Emet-Selch and over the unconscious Scions. It bursts upwards, blasting away smoke and clouds and extending far beyond the range of G’raha’s vision.

He shouldn’t look. He shouldn’t want to see this - this _ending_ \- 

Morbid curiosity makes him stare. He can’t take his eyes from the Light beyond Emet-Selch, no matter how blinding it is -

Or how devastating Vahl-as-eater might be. 

G’raha prepares himself to jump atop the ledge, feeling Syrcus Tower thrumming with power at the edge of his consciousness even as he senses the fluctuations in the aether ahead of him. Tears stream down his cheeks as he waits, entire body tensed, and he sees Emet-Selch stumble back as the aether expands and twists - 

And - dissipates...?

G’raha’s knuckles turn white and his ears flatten as the cloud of Light begins to fade. A dark shape staggers to its feet - 

Not an eater. Not a Warden. Not a soul brimming with Light, but - 

Vahl wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. His blue eyes snap to the Ascian in front of him as he unsheathes his greatsword, swings it from side to side, and then heaves it up to rest atop his shoulders. His face is a mask of cold fury as he waits for Emet-Selch to speak.

The Ascian takes another step back, shaking his head in denial, and for the first time G’raha’s fear of the man is trumped by something else.

Gritting his teeth, G’raha drags himself up over the lip of the rocky battlefield.

Long, long ago - so long past it is but a bare wisp of a memory - he’d stood in the World of Darkness with Unei, Doga, and Vahl. When all seemed lost Unei and Doga had offered G’raha power. To him - a simple Miqo’te; an average marksman; a young and excitable historian - came a responsibility unlike any other in Eorzea. 

With that responsibility came choice.

What an impossible decision for a would-be adventurer! What a heartbreaking fork in the road ahead: to enjoy what life had gifted him with Vahl or to take the selfless path and save the world! He’d called it fate and let himself be pulled along by a future he could not see, by an ending as murky as the depths of his tower, by an obligation borne of his Allagan blood and his love for Eorzea and the sudden realization that _this was why he came to Mor Dhona_ -

And now? Here? Wherever they are in this Ascian’s conjured memory? As G’raha watches Vahl’s jaw drop on the other side of Emet-Selch - as courage and anger and the certainty that it is _now or never_ fills his heart -

_This_ is the destiny he sought three hundred years ago. _This_ is the culmination of that fork in the road.

This is the retribution that is owed to every world’s people from past, present, and future.

Crimson eyes meet cerulean across the ruined ledge of rock. Vahl takes his blade in both hands while shifting one foot back, and G’raha pulls every scrap of power he can channel from Syrcus Tower as he lifts his staff over his head. 

_This_ they will do together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a look at this amazing [G’raha and Vahl](https://twitter.com/akhmeow/status/1361668468848746499?s=20) that I’ve been losing my mind over all week! Makes me want to sprinkle ARR flashbacks everywhere because _look how damn cute they are oh my god_
> 
> Next chapter should be back on my regular schedule!


	59. At World's End

The darkness at the end scares G’raha the most.

It is all-encompassing and inescapable; it grows and grows, swallowing Vahl and the Scions and _everything_ ; it eats the heart of hope and whispers fingers of fear along G’raha’s spine - and then -

There is light.

Not _Light_. Not the foul power that had brought Norvrandt to its knees, that he had fought against for almost a century, that had twisted and tormented Vahl -

Daylight. Pure, simple, soft - it drifts over the ruins of buildings like a sunrise on crumbling headstones, promising a beautiful day after the blackest of nights. It is the first clear sky G’raha has seen since he left the Crystarium - since he ventured to Kholusia with noble intentions and a wealth of secrets - and it is the first sunrise he’s seen since Emet-Selch took him captive. 

Dropping to his knees, he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. Seeker of the Sun indeed: he has sought, hasn’t he? And here, in this memory within a memory, he has finally found.

When Emet-Selch dies there is no fanfare or applause; no appearance by Hydaelyn offering her champion thanks; no return of the souls lost to the millennia of his machinations. The Ascian dies alone in a ruined nightmare, surrounded by the shell of a city he’d once called home and the ghosts of people he once loved. There is an aspect of the entire experience that lends itself to pity -

G’raha doesn’t spare him even that. 

But he is careful not to go the other route, too. This is not a cause for celebration: this is a tragedy on the grandest scale, a nightmare that consumed entire worlds. This death is not a triumph: it is a necessity.

He had to die.

He _had_ to.

Vahl and the Ascian exchanged words before the end. Quiet, somber words that brought them both to tears.

One day G'raha will ask. One day, in this life that continues, in this life that extends before him like a map yet uncharted - 

To think! He has a future! He is gifted with time beyond the Light’s end! It is as surreal as it is joyous; as confusing as it is overwhelming. G’raha’s life is no longer dominated by the plan that had consumed every waking moment of the past century: the goal has been met. The boxes have been checked. What happens to a life once every task has been seen through to completion? What does the Exarch set his mind to once the First is saved? 

Except -

Not the Exarch.

Not anymore.

But if he is G’raha once again...

Guilt is a strange, unpredictable thing. He’d felt very little of it when he first brought Vahl to Norvrandt - he’d known firsthand the price to be paid had he hesitated, and that kind of knowledge rendered guilt rather moot - but now that the battle has been won G’raha cannot help losing himself in it. Vahl had _suffered_ on the First, and G’raha had been the one urging him onward! What bloody taskmaster has he become to ignore the soul within his Weapon of Light - to ignore the pain Vahl had been forced to endure and the choices that had been stolen from him? 

_I’m fighting because they deserve to live._

Shivers run up and down G’raha’s arms. His hands tighten around his Allagan staff; he tries not to stare at the rod - at the bloody handprints left along its length - and attempts to find his center. His ground. His sense of self.

Fleeting, fleeting, always fleeting. Who will stand when this is said and done? The Crystal Exarch, or G’raha Tia? 

Can he still _be_ G’raha? It has been such a long time...

He hears the Scions run to meet their Warrior of Light and cannot force himself to join them. Even if lethargy did not do its damned best to keep him seated, he does not have the fortitude for this.

What if Vahl hasn’t forgiven him? What if Vahl will _never_ forgive him? 

What will he do if he meets those bright blue eyes and sees only fury?

Murmurs of speech reach him - Alphinaud, Y’shtola, Ryne. Vahl’s own low murmur sparks tears in G’raha’s eyes, but he doesn’t dare move. He doesn’t dare look up! He doesn’t want to see the condemnation, the suspicion, the distance - and not just with Vahl! He’d lied to _all_ of them! Only Urianger had any idea of what hid inside G’raha’s head, and even then the astrologian hadn’t known the largest piece of the puzzle.

A single set of footsteps, with that familiar jingle of heavy metal and chain - approaching, approaching, stopping. He stares at the pitted ground in front of him, at the dark boots just close enough to glimpse. 

“I’m - I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

Vahl kneels in front of him; G’raha flinches; he cannot _stand_ this. If only Vahl would yell, or curse, or say _anything_ -

“Raha?

Tears come hot and fast. He quickly wipes them away, feeling foolish that something so simple as a _name_ might undo him so thoroughly, but Vahl doesn’t pay it any mind. The Warrior gently pulls G’raha’s bloody staff out of his hands and rests it on the ground beside them; he drags off his heavy gloves and drops them to the side; he slides his calloused hands under G’raha’s.

“Look at me, please?”

G’raha clenches his teeth. This - this should be easy! After everything he’s been through this should be - shouldn't this be -

He looks up.

Blue. Brilliant, beautiful blue eyes; large, tear-filled eyes; loving, hurting eyes -

He surges upwards with a moan, half-expecting resistance - but Vahl’s arms wrap around him and pull him tight. G’raha can feel his own tears wetting the Warrior’s neck but he doesn’t care - this - this is Vahl! Vahl within his arms! Holding him chest-to-chest! How long has it been? How long has he waited? How long -

The first night in Eight Sentinels - “the Warrior of Light died, sir, not long after your tower closed” -

The morning in Syrcus Trench - “Here lies Vahl Rime” inscribed on a dusty sarcophagus with an axe and sword crossed at his feet -

The day he summoned Vahl across the rift - alive! Alive and well! Alive and well and kept at a distance, held at arms’ length, deceived only to spare him just a little more hurt -

And now! Now his nose is buried against Vahl’s neck, his tears running over armour and leather and down Vahl’s shoulder, and he can hear Vahl’s low murmur as his fingers run through G’raha’s hair -

“Raha, Raha, Raha, Raha -”

“I’m sorry,” G’raha tries again. His voice is high - strained - but he has to say it. He has to get it out. “I deceived you - lied to you - left you - I _used_ you, Vahl, and -”

The Warrior releases him for only an instant: his rough hands quickly cup G’raha’s cheeks as he brings their foreheads together. 

“I thought I lost you,” Vahl murmurs. “I - I thought you far beyond my reach. And then, atop Mount Gulg…” He pulls back to look G’raha in the eyes. There is a hint of desperation to him. “You’re not going anywhere? You’re not leaving?”

More tears run down G’raha’s cheeks and over Vahl’s fingers. “No - no, I’m here. I’m here.”

A smile ghosts Vahl’s lips, but only for an instant. So gently G’raha barely feels it, the Warrior brushes back the hair from the gash above G’raha’s brows. Something in Vahl shifts - a tenseness akin to a rope pulled taut, a brittleness that reminds G’raha of ice - and he knows the rage in those blue eyes is not directed to him. Vahl’s attention moves downwards: over the tattered, bloody robes, the wounds across G’raha’s left arm, the sores around his wrists - 

“We’ll get you to a healer,” Vahl states. He suddenly stands, seeming as though he might make his way this very instant, and pulls G’raha to his feet. “Chessamile, in the Crystarium -”

Ignoring the two fully-capable healers behind them, G’raha shakes his head. “I’m okay, Vahl, it - it’s not urgent -” A badly-timed wave of dizziness hits him and Vahl grabs his upper arms to keep him on his feet.

“Not urgent?” Vahl growls. “I’d have ended the bastard faster had I known he’d done _this_ to you.”

Ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous, and yet it means so much to hear it. G’raha cannot help smiling a watery smile, which grows even wider at the Warrior’s bewildered expression. “I missed you.”

Like a slow leak in a dammed river, the anger gradually drains out of Vahl. His shoulders relax and his head tilts to one side; he eventually snorts and shakes his head, but his attention is sufficiently diverted. Catching the last of G’raha’s tears on his thumb, he finally smiles back.

“I missed you, too.”

No anger - no blame or regret; no demands as to _why_ -

Just Vahl, as he’d always been, and Vahl, as he’d become after G’raha left. 

Vahl, the man G’raha had fallen in love with so, so long ago.

It’s a strange, giddy relief - mixed with no small amount of shock and exhaustion - that motivates G’raha to reach up and wrap his arms around Vahl’s neck. He feels drunk with joy as he gives his Warrior a sleepy-eyed grin. “I’d like to kiss you.”

Vahl’s eyes widen. A quiet huff of laughter rustles G’raha’s hair as Vahl pulls him close. He smiles as G’raha loves to see him smile, with one corner of his mouth tilted upwards and his bright eyes shining beneath dark brows, and then his low whisper - voiced like a dare, like a challenge, like a call to action - shoots right through to G’raha’s heart. “You have my permission - G’raha Tia.”

With the wind in his hair and the sun on his face, a sky free of Light and a world saved, a life that is unexpectedly his to live and a crowd of companions he decides to ignore for just a moment longer - 

With tears in his eyes and love in his heart, G’raha raises himself on tiptoe to kiss his one and only Warrior of Light.


End file.
